


The Heart of Magic

by KoshkaDevyshka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, BAMF Minerva McGonagall, Bisexual Bill Weasley, Gen, Minerva McGonagall Raises Harry Potter, Neville Longbottom is a Good Friend, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poppy Pomfrey is a BFF, Slow Burn, Wizarding Culture (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoshkaDevyshka/pseuds/KoshkaDevyshka
Summary: Taken from his relatives, Harry is raised within the wizarding world. With people firmly in his corner, this Harry Potter is more than a naïve, self-sacrificing, boy savior.What would happen if Harry was aware of the Wizarding World and his place within it?
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood/Harry Potter
Comments: 59
Kudos: 202





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is my fix-it ode to the Wizarding World. With further development of wizarding culture, and a blasé attitude to the ever-changing canon of the Harry Potter universe. I'm looking at you "Crimes of Grindwald".
> 
> This story will be playing a bit fast and loose with canon (e.x. the Potters are part of the sacred 28 (Cantankerus Nott was a biased ass). Harry's grandparents are Charlus and Dorea Potter, etc.).
> 
> With all that said, please enjoy, and feel free to drop a comment to let me know what you think

Minerva McGonagall had been pacing around her study for a little over an hour, the light from the solitary, half melted, candle on her desk casting long shadows on her already gaunt face. 

_Bravery_ , she thought, _threw common sense out of the window far too often to be conducive to a long and healthy life_. _Or worse yet, turned even the most talented of minds towards insanity_. 

That’s what the Sorting Hat could have seen in her; she _was_ a hatstall, after all. That ancient piece of scrap saw that she could turn absolutely mad in the name of what _she_ thought was right. And, maybe, that was the reason she had been sorted into Gryffindor in the end.

 _But what other choice did I have?_ She thought. The boy was too thin, skin stretched too tightly over his bones and discoloured with bruises, when she found him. It was unsurprising, to her at least. The Dursleys, quite astonishingly, had treated him rather well over the first two years of his life with them but, as she had repeatedly told Albus, it was only a matter of time before all that changed. 

And it did. On his fourth birthday, the boy’s magic had finally started to manifest in a manner that could no longer be ignored. It started with an unfortunate accident involving the stove, and since then it had entirely upended the Dursleys’ lives. Their neighbors eventually called the Muggle law enforcement on the Dursleys when the bouts had become entirely too obvious to ignore. Various neighbors regaled the uniformed officers with confusing stories about giggling children who could levitate; incessant barrages of toads habitating in mean Mrs. Walker’s lawn; and neighborhood puppies turning pink at five in the evening every night for a solid week. The Dursleys’ boy often took part in these games as well, of course, like any child would. But for a family -- a couple, she corrected herself -- that took pride in being _utterly_ _normal_ , all of this behaviour was nothing short of unacceptable.

The large grandfather clock in her study groaned mournfully, ticking steadily further into the night. She winced at the sound, thinking that no magic in the world could ever soothe whatever sorrow that clock had experienced. She really did need to get rid of it, family heirlooms be damned. But, for now, she supposed it did tell her what time it was -- midnight. Much past the time to put away the maudlin thoughts, and head to bed.

Sighing, she flicked her hand at the candle, extinguishing it wordlessly. The door to her study slowly opened inward, permitting its mistress access to the shadow filled hallway outside. Pursing her lips, she turned to her left, where an ancient, ornately carved door -- depicting a pride of sleeping lion cubs -- sat. Once she reached the door, she stopped, hesitating. 

She did not want to startle the boy if he was sleeping. She just knew that the Dursleys often woke him in the middle of the night for some appalling task or other. She wanted him to feel safe again -- wanted to obliterate all the hurt that he experienced in the past year. But, be it maternal instinct or unfathomable curiosity, she needed to see that the boy was still safely ensconced in his new room. So, as silently as possible, she eased the door open.

And there, sleeping soundly on his four-poster bed, was Harry James Potter. 

The boy was still under the soft, crimson blanket she tucked him in hours ago. His unruly, jet black hair, which she had tried and failed to tame earlier, contrasted with the white pillow that cradled his head. He was breathing steadily, scrunching his nose from time to time. Minerva’s shoulders relaxed, easing the tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying.

 _The Boy Who Lived,_ she thought bitterly, with a small sigh. He was an orphan. An abused child. And for all the wonder and prestige that accompanied his famous title, it would always belie the reality of the hell he went through.

 _He does have his scar, however_ , she thought again, her jaw tightening at the sight of the lightning bolt-shaped lesion that marred Harry’s forehead. The irony of the shape was not lost on her. Although his scar was almost a perfect depiction of the rune for protection in the Elder-Futhark alphabet, it had done nothing to protect him from the depravity of the Dursleys. She had tried to heal it, but no spell or potion that she knew had worked. It was almost as if the scar had a life of its own, as if it was unwilling to part with him. 

It was horrible, really, to see such a young face battered and sunken. And yet, there was a small sleepy smile gracing Harry’s lips. It was probably the first time in a while that the five-year-old slept soundly. She hoped -- prayed to the gods, really -- that he was dreaming about all the wondrous things the world could ever give him. The world owed him that much.

Heaving another quiet sigh through her nose, the witch slowly closed the door. If what she did was to be considered madness, then so be it. She was going against Albus’s direct orders, but the brilliant Albus Dumbledore is wrong in this situation, even if the Dursleys’ blood connection gave the boy some meager protection. Whatever protection those relations could give would never justify the abuse young Harry had suffered. Besides, _she_ was a witch. _She_ could protect him. Her only regret was that she allowed Harry to stay with the Dursleys after his parents murder. Her complacency had given the boy so much more pain that could have easily been avoided.

As she sunk into her bed, brushing out her long, graying auburn hair to plait for sleep, she tried to banish those thoughts. The most important thing now was that Harry Potter was safe in her home -- _their home_. At that, she smiled to herself. Her godson would be safe, would be happy, and most importantly, he would be loved.

* * *

Minerva was mindful to be up with the dawn; Merlin knew at what time the Dursleys usually woke the boy to begin his chores. After summoning her personal elf -- Knicks -- to request breakfast for herself and Harry in her study, she impulsively checked Harry again. The soft, sleeping smile from earlier in the night was gone, and in its place was a furrowed brow that distinctly reminded her of a young, dissatisfied, James Potter. A purple bruise, where his uncle had hit him the morning she took him away with her, was starting to form on his face. Minerva left Harry’s door cracked open, the better to hear when he woke, and made her way to her study. She had a letter to write.

She watched her post owl, Zephyr, fly toward the horizon bearing an urgent letter to Poppy, requesting her assistance. Behind her the elves laid out a veritable feast of breakfast foods. Thanking her elves, she sank down behind her desk into the worn blue wingback chair, which had belonged to her late husband. She had had it moved to her study when he died, to have a piece of him nearby every day. 

She waved her hand toward her tea service, preparing herself a hot cup of Lady Grey. A wedge of lemon then came soaring through the air after the cup, placing itself in her hand. Minerva sighed in contentment then, squeezing the lemon into the liquid. It only ever felt that she had the right amount of citrus when she did it by hand. 

Her ears perked up at the sound of movement from Harry’s room. With a fortifying breath, Minerva rose to officially meet her godson. 

The boy was already standing in the doorway, looking so small in his rumpled, oversized blue jumper. Minerva noted the holes in the worn wool -- that would have to be fixed later; she had to have new clothes made for him anyway. 

Harry was rubbing his tired eyes with a small fist, his green eyes were wet with tears of confusion as he called out, “Mummy?”

Minerva’s heart cracked as she knelt in front of him, “Good morning, Harry. Are you hungry?” she asked gently. Harry nodded slowly, unsure, confused tears still in his eyes as he looked down the hallway. “Come along then,” she spoke softly and offered him her hand. 

Harry hesitated until his stomach let out a rumble loud enough to rival that of a lion cub. Face flushed red from embarrassment, he grabbed her fingers in a small fist. And with that, a small ember of hope was born in Minerva’s chest as she led Harry toward the first meal of his new life. _Maybe he wasn’t abused as badly as his bruises would suggest._

“You can sit over here, Harry,” she said, gesturing toward a chair to the left, closest to the door. 

Harry slowly nodded, and Minerva watched with fascination as the boy clumsily climbed into the chair on his own. Reaching the seat, he sat, laying his hands on his lap and keeping his head down.

The top of his head, Minerva saw, barely reached the top of the heavy circular table. Even with Harry looking so sullen, she couldn’t help but bite back a chuckle. She was definitely used to dealing with eleven-year-olds, who were admittedly quite a little bit taller. 

“It seems that I will have to adjust your chair a little, dear,” she said gently, “try to sit still, please. This will only take a moment.” Harry nodded again and, taking that as a signal, Minerva made a show of waving her wand and stating firmly, “ _Sella longus!_ ”

Eyes wide, Harry gripped his chair as it grew taller, creaking slightly as it did so. His elbows reached the top of the table when the growth charm stopped with a small pop.

The boy smiled and shouted, “I go up!”

“Indeed,” Minerva replied, smiling broadly. She sat herself in the chair adjacent to him. She would have to adjust the chair later, to make it a bit more accommodating to a small child. And the plates too, for that matter. She didn’t mind if the china broke, of course; she could always repair them quickly. But she did not want the boy to get hurt either. 

For all her conviction in taking Harry in yesterday, she was only starting to understand what taking care of him meant.

Gesturing at the spread in front of her, Minerva spoke, “You can have whatever you want, Harry. And please do tell me if you would like anything else.” She added the last bit as an afterthought. 

The elves did a wonderful job already -- the table was absolutely packed with food. There were blood sausages and fruit, fried and scrambled eggs, rashers upon rashers of bacon, and toast slathered with butter and accompanied with a menagerie of jams. There was pumpkin juice, tea, and milk at one area of the table as well. It seemed that the elves were delighted to have another person to dote upon. There was more food than a growing boy could possibly eat.

Harry, however, just clumsily picked at the porridge in front of him. His fingers were tight around his small spoon, knuckles stretching his skin. The boy’s smile was gone, replaced with a sullen expression that tugged at Minerva’s heart.

“You know, Harry, you can get anything you want. Would you like some fruit? Or perhaps bacon?,” Minerva encouraged. Maybe he didn’t like to eat as much in the mornings? Or didn’t like the food? Did he even eat breakfast, for that matter?

Harry didn’t look up as he whispered, “Where is Dud? He eat?”

Minerva blinked. “Your cousin?” She asked, and Harry nodded slightly in response. Minerva sighed a little as she said, “He’s not here.”

“He eat first,” Harry explained. “Always Dud first. I always last.”

It took all of Minerva’s willpower not to apparate to the Dursley’s home and wring the couple by their necks. Maybe she would, someday, when their son was older and out of that wretched house. It wouldn’t do to orphan yet another child after all.

For now, she kept her voice as even as possible, “Here, in our home, you would always eat first, dear.”

She waved her wand at the bowl of porridge in front of him, levitating it out of his way. With another wave, she sent some sausages floating in midair, cutting themselves into little pieces before landing on Harry’s plate. Eggs and small berries followed shortly after, as pumpkin juice started to fill Harry’s small cup.

Harry finally looked up from his lap, green eyes wider than an owl’s in wonder, as he watched the food soar towards him. His mouth was agape, fascination written plainly in his features. 

But there was still something sad in the boy’s face, a lonely expression that Minerva couldn’t quite place until he said, “Magic. Is bad… Unca calls it freak’sh.”

Minerva tried not to frown as she responded. “It’s people who behave poorly, dear” she tried to explain, “whether they have magic or not, they can be bad. But you, Harry, you will do good magic or no. Here, in our home, you can always use magic.”

As Harry took a second to puzzle out her words, he fidgeted, moving a piece of fruit here, and a bit of egg there, until all the food was exactly where it suited him best. After a few moments, his eyes started to brighten with excitement. His head shot up, and for the first time since he sat down, he really looked at his surroundings and the food in front of him.

Finally, he looked at Minerva, absolutely beaming as he said with all the reverence that a five-year-old can muster, “Our home?”

Minerva bit back a sob, “Indeed. _Our_ home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry's speech and age appropriate cognitive development are sorely lacking because he has no adult to engage the correct areas of his brain during crucial growth periods. That being said, he's an incredibly intelligent boy, and has taught himself an astounding amount given his situation. If it's bothersome, no worries, he progresses quite quickly with proper encouragement and opportunity.


	2. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the love -- and comments! They truly do make my dad every time I receive one.
> 
> I have another warning for you all; apparently I am incapable of writing fast-paced. Arc I will all be pre-Hogwarts. There is a lot of world building and laying the foundations for later, and because of this it seems each chapter gets progressively longer. If you're looking for a fast paced exposition you won't find it here (I tried but Minerva just loves to think). If you're unsure if you'll enjoy it or not I encourage you to still give it a read, I think you'll find it worth the initial slowness.
> 
> With all the being said, please enjoy the beginning of arc I. And feel free to drop me a comment! <3

The breakfast spread disappeared from the table as Minerva led Harry back down the hall toward his rooms. Curiosity shone in his green eyes as he took in the familial tapestries on the walls. When they neared his room, Harry let out a soft gasp when he saw his bedroom door fully for the first time. The carved lion cubs of a pride frolicked around on the honey-colored wood, giving chase to birds and each other.

“I touch it?” Harry asked softly, looking up at Minerva with big hopeful eyes. 

She stared at his expression, dumbfounded, before collecting herself and giving him an encouraging nod. 

_ How in Merlin’s name am I ever supposed to tell that face no?  _ The boy was going to be trouble in a few years, she knew.

Harry moved slowly toward the carved door. Having caught the attention of the nearest cub, he reached a tentative hand toward it, stopping just short of brushing his fingers against the lion’s mane. 

Minerva blinked in surprise when the cub bowed its head in consent. With a beaming grin, Harry ran his hand softly over the cub’s head, eliciting a content growling purr from the cub -- and earning the curiosity of its siblings. Never had Minerva yearned for a wizarding camera more than in that moment, wishing she could document the scene of a five-year-old Harry Potter making friends with the cubs on his bedroom door.

The Estate’s inherent magic had accepted the young boy, Minerva mused, as the door’s enchantment acknowledged Harry. It warmed Minerva’s heart to see her husband’s ancestral estate accept sweet Harry so easily. Neither Minerva nor Elphinstone ever had any children, her husband had died too soon after they married. But Harry’s presence seemed to confirm what Minerva always knew in her heart: she and her husband had wanted children -- deeply. The Estate was simply responding to its masters’ wishes.

Satisfied with his newfound friends, Harry looked back to Minerva. With a soft smile, she led him past the door and into his room, holding his hand. The room itself was actually two, the bedroom and the attached bathing chamber. The walls were decorated with tapestries depicting the most fantastical aspects the Wizarding world had to offer: views of a verdant magical forest with a herd of unicorn moving in and out of view; an incredibly lifelike rendering of a Welsh Green sleeping in a cave embedded into a cliff face, smoke billowing from its nostrils; and -- Minerva’s favorite -- the Isle of Skye, enchanted to reflect the weather, and showing the fairies flitting about the famous fairy pools. 

The four-poster bed was new. Minerva had modeled it to look like the beds in Gryffindor Tower the night before, when she had arrived with a sleeping Harry cradled to her chest. Surprisingly, the bed was already made, albeit a little clumsily, which told her that it was Harry who fixed it, not the elves. She smiled at that.

She was pulled from her thoughts when the boy dropped their joined hands. Harry gave a small hum of excitement as he sprinted towards the large trunk situated at the foot of the bed. 

“Toys?” He asked loudly, grinning at Minerva.

“Yes, inside the trunk, dear,” Minerva nodded. 

How Harry knew there were toys in the trunk, she would never know. But the boy gave another hum as he opened the trunk and squealed with delight at the treasures inside. A stuffed dragon came out first, its wings flapping slightly, much to Harry’s amusement. He then pulled out wooden toy wizards and watched for a moment, fascinated at the tiny, colorful sparks that came out of their wands. The toys were all a little old and worn, testament to the many hours of play Elphinstone had with them when he was a boy, but they seemed to suit Harry just fine.

Minerva walked over to the other end of the room, where a mahogany rocking chair waited in front of large shelves containing a huge collection of children's books, some of them gifts from her own Muggle father when she was young. She sat there, watching the boy play on the soft, red rug in the center of the room. After a few moments, she enchanted the toy wizards to do battle, much to the surprised, joyous laughter of young Harry.

_ Pop! _

“Missy Minny!” Knicks suddenly called, the house elf’s large indigo eyes and flapping ears appearing in front her.

Minerva smiled as she gently asked, “What can I do for you, dear?”

“The others have eaten their fill, Missy. Of the food from this morning. Should Knicks be taking the leftovers to Craigh na Dun?” Knicks asked, voice squeaking slightly.

Minerva nodded at the question. “Buy some sweets for all of us before you get back,” she added. “I am expecting Poppy today, and if I am not mistaken, I believe that you are running low on Honey Bees?”

Minerva glanced toward an oblivious Harry, it would seem that the stuffed red dragon had joined the fray of battle at Harry’s urging. It flew low, intimidating the wooden wizards into breaking formation with its roars, before perching itself on Harry’s head to observe the chaos.

“Knicks only had a few of the last bunch, Cuppy has been eating more of them, Missy!” Knicks squeaked, tugging on her ears in agitation, referring to the youngest house elf in the estate. “Cuppy has been opening them all, and sneaking them when Cuppy should be sleeping! The Honey Bees’ buzzing wakes Knicks up, Missy!”

“It seems high time that Cuppy has some more responsibility in this household, don’t you think?” Minerva considered, chuckling to herself. “Why don’t you call him here, Knicks? I should like to have a word with him.”

Minerva almost missed the large grin brewing on the elf’s face as she disappeared with a loud pop. Almost.

Mere seconds later, Knicks appeared with another, younger, house elf. Cuppy had smaller ears than his sister, but his eyes were the same shade of indigo. All of the house elves living at Urquart Estate picked their own clothes to wear every day, and it seemed that today the siblings picked out traditional Scottish garb. 

Minerva noted, however, that a slight buzzing sound was coming from Cuppy’s sporran, the younger house elf nervously patting them down.

“Are those Honey Bees, dear?” Minerva asked, amused. 

Cuppy nodded slightly as he said, voice small, “Yes Missy Minny.”

“Dog?” Harry questioned, finally turning his attention towards the elves. He suddenly stood up, disrupting the dragon’s peaceful perch atop his head, and quickly made his way over. The toy wizards, noting the lack of attention upon them, broke from their battle, and started setting up camp to rest.

The sudden attention upon them caused Cuppy to squeak in surprise, quickly moving to hide behind Minerva’s skirts. The elf stuffed his hands in his sporran to keep his honeyed delights from escaping. 

Minerva placed a soft hand on Cuppy’s head while reaching out toward a suddenly unsure Harry. 

“Cuppy, this is Harry. I would like you to look after him, like Knicks did for Master Elphinstone when he was young.”

Shifting from behind Minerva, Cuppy looked at Harry, large ears drooping slightly. The young elf smiled softly then, his earlier alarm gone. 

“Cuppy is sorry for hiding, Young Master,” he said, “Cuppy was not expecting anyone other than Missy Minny.”

Harry shifted closer to Minerva, releasing her hand to grasp her skirts instead.

Harry responded in a quiet voice, “Is okay. I is sorry for scaring you. You is a dog?”

Cuppy shook his head with such enthusiasm that his bat-like ears flapped against his head. 

“Cuppy is an elf, Young Master. It is Cuppy’s job to cook and clean, and take care of Missy Minny and Young Master” Harry scooted closer at that, nodding slowly in understanding. “Does the Young Master like Honey Bees?” The elf added.

Harry tilted his head, confused. “I don’t know. What is a Hunny Bee?” 

Mischief lit Cuppy’s large indigo eyes. He pulled his long-fingered hand from the pouch situated in the center of his kilt, still held in a loose fist. Harry looked at the fist first, then at Minerva, with a questioning gaze. 

The witch smiled softly before saying, “Go on dear, they are quite delicious.” 

Harry held out a tentative hand then, smiling in surprise when three small bees, made entirely of whipped honey, flew from Cuppy’s hand and buzzed around Harry’s palm. The boy seemed unsure what to do with the candied creatures when they started to melt.

“You can eat it Harry, it’s okay,” Minerva said, encouraging.

“I not hurt it?” Harry questioned quietly. The words hit Minerva like a bludger to the gut. A child so young should not be so worried about hurting others. It spoke of intimate experiences with pain. The health scans and Poppy’s arrival could not come soon enough.

“It’s quite alright Harry, they are meant to be eaten.” With her reassurance, Harry slowly ate one of the half melted bees, humming in pleasure at the sweet, rich flavour.

Having consumed his treat, Harry smiled sweetly toward Cuppy before suddenly giving the small elf a tight hug. “Thank you, Mr. Cuppy.”

Blushing and frazzled, Cuppy responds, “You is welcome, Young Master.” 

After a quick charm to cleanse Harry’s sticky face and fingers, Minerva thanked the elves and allowed them to pop back to work. Standing up from her rocking chair, she took Harry by the hand and led him back to his toys.

“I here to work with Mr. Cuppy? I do lots of chores for Unca and Tuney,” Harry said then, his smile disarmingly wide, seemingly reassured to have found his footing in this new place at last.

“Absolutely not,” Minerva replied, her voice much sharper than she intended. She and Poppy already had a lot to talk about, but she would apparently have to vent out the murderous rage she felt towards the Dursleys, and by extension Albus, as well. “You’re here to play and learn and grow and be loved, Harry.”

Minerva tasted iron in her mouth as she bit the inside of her cheek, trying once more not to sob, as the boy gave her a bemused, heartbroken expression in response.

* * *

The day was edging toward the afternoon hours when Bard, the elf in charge of the daily running of the estate, popped in with news that Poppy had finally arrived.

“Send her to my study, please, Bard,” Minerva said, gathering up her copy of  _ Transfiguration Today,  _ a bi-annual subscription she had been a member of since she achieved her Mastery. 

She stood, leaving Harry’s room to allow the young boy a few hours’ nap, deciding to leave his toys spread across the soft rug for when he woke.

The elderly elf, with a copious amount of white hair sprouting from his ears, nodded in acquiescence. 

He bowed slightly with a, “Yes, Mistress,” before popping away.

Poppy Pomfrey was already sitting at the circular table when Minerva arrived at the study. The witch’s robes were a little rumpled and dusty, Minerva noted, as she sat down next to her friend. 

A selection of tea and biscuits popped into view when she did so, the soft chink of fine china sounded as the service made contact with the polished wood. Two cups of tea started to prepare themselves in the manner both witches preferred.

“Pomona has you helping her again?” Minerva spoke, smiling in amusement. She reached for a Ginger Newt, thankful that the elves remembered to have them in stock.

Poppy snorted, raising her honeyed black tea to her lips, responding with a voice straining to hide her own amusement, “ _ Hagrid  _ was supposed to help today. But he had some business in Diagon Alley and I was the only other person at the castle.”

“What I am hearing is that this is your fault,” Minerva smirked toward her long-time friend.

“Hardly! I am but a victim in this particular instance!” Poppy shot a friendly glare Minerva’s way. “And you  _ know  _ how Pomona gets when Mandrakes are involved. You would think that the little devils’ shrieks are like music to her!”

Minerva snorted a laugh into her own teacup at that, with Poppy chuckling a few moments after. Pomona Sprout always took her job seriously, as a Hogwarts Professor should. But oftentimes her seriousness stretched into obsession, especially when Mandrakes were involved.

For a few minutes, the two caught up with each other, talking of the goings on at Hogwarts, and the antics of the students from the previous year. 

After taking the last sip of her tea, Poppy sat the cup and saucer back onto its place in the service, “I would like to ask you a question, Minerva, if you do not mind?”

The other witch inclined her head, “What is it, dear?”

“How have you been? It’s quiet here, without Elphinstone,” Poppy gently inquired.

Minerva sighed, her smile turning wistful, and shook her head. “That man was entirely too generous,” she said, “I had half a mind to just stay in our cottage in Hogsmeade. It has only been three months; the memory of him is still in these walls. To be frank, it is admittedly overbearing at times. But the estate needs tending. It is the least I could do.”

“My house is always open should you ever need to escape for a day,” Poppy replied, kindly. 

“I might accept that offer,” Minerva said. The blonde witch’s cottage was quite small, but Minerva had always enjoyed her visits there. “But I may have my hands full for quite a while yet, Poppy,” she continued, voice quiet and earnest, “And I may need your help.”

“This concerns your letter, I assume?” Poppy questioned, raising an eyebrow. When her friend only nodded in response, the healer continued, “It sounded urgent. Has something happened?”

Minerva released a deep sigh, placing her cup down next to Poppy’s. She then raised her wand, closing the door and setting wards around her study. One could never be too careful about such delicate information after all, even within the walls of their own home. In response to her actions, Poppy’s whole demeanor shifted, whatever had happened was very serious indeed.

“Poppy, I’m going to need a Wizarding Oath from you,” at Poppy’s look of consternation, Minerva hastened to continue, “It is not because I do not trust you, dear friend. Simply that what I am about to share is extremely sensitive information, and it is my duty to protect those involved in any manner I can.” 

Understanding dawned on the other witch’s face. “There is no need for you to explain yourself to me, Minnie. I know that attacks for information can, and often do, come from any quarter,” Poppy said with a grim look on her face. 

She reached for her wand and continued, “I swear upon my magic to never knowingly reveal any information disclosed within this room to anyone without the knowledge, or consent, of Minerva McGonagall. So I will it. So mote it be.” 

There was a wisp of gold magic that wrapped itself tightly around Poppy’s slender right wrist, before fading into her skin. 

“Now tell me, what madness has happened that has you in such a state, Minerva?” Poppy tucked her wand back up the sleeve of her soft blue robes.

“As you know, James and Lily Potter made me their son’s Godmother -” Minerva started.

Poppy nodded with a secret grin, “Yes, much to the consternation of Albus, if I recall correctly.”

Minerva nodded, her mouth turning up into a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Indeed. And if you recall, it was young Harry’s fifth birthday a few days past,” Minerva waved her wand to refill their teacups, before summoning over a bottle of whiskey from the heavy bookshelf cabinet on the right side of the room, and adding a splash to her tea. 

Minerva placed the bottle within easy reach of Poppy, she could decide for herself if a little liquid fortification was needed with this information. 

“As his Godmother, and sole wizarding guardian, it is my responsibility to introduce the boy to Wizarding Pre School now that he’s of that age. I visited yesterday to introduce myself.”

Minerva took a deep sip from her tea, trying to loosen her suddenly tight throat. “You should have seen the state he was in Poppy! I told Albus the Dursleys weren’t a good sort, why he would choose to place him with Lily’s sister -” 

Poppy gasped, interrupting, “Harry Potter was left with  _ those _ Muggles?! I recall Lily telling of the growing viciousness of her sister during her Healers’ Apprenticeship with me her seventh year!”

Minerva nodded at the outburst. Voice grim she responded, “Aye, the worst sort of Muggles. The man, Harry’s uncle, was shouting abuse toward Harry for some inconsequential thing. Loud enough he could be heard down the street.” 

Minerva sat her teacup down with a sharp clack, lacing her fingers together in an effort to stop their trembling. 

She could not keep the rage from her voice as she continued, “By the time I got inside, that disgusting man had hit the poor boy across the face hard enough to send him flying into the edge of the kitchen table.”

Poppy made an appalled sort of squeak, and reached for the whiskey, pouring a copious amount into her tea. 

Minerva continued in a tight voice, “I stunned the man, grabbed Harry and apparated out. He is here now, sleeping in the nursery.”

The blonde witch took a quick gulp of her tea, before standing, “We must run diagnostic scans at once. Who knows what damage he could have sustained, and the sooner he is on the mend the better.”

Minerva stood, and started toward the study door, “That is precisely why I asked you here Poppy.”

The healer reached out and caught Minerva’s hand just as she passed.

Meeting her eyes to convey the seriousness of her words as she said, “Please know, Minnie dear, that I will do whatever I can to help you keep him near. We will not allow him to go back to those abusive Muggles.” 

Poppy squeezed Minerva’s wrist gently before letting go, and following her toward the door.

* * *

The healer’s kind blue eyes softened at the sight of Harry, snuggled into a nest of red blankets and colorful pillows he had quietly asked for before his nap. As she took in the swelling purple bruise covering the left side of his face and the sunken hungry look that was wrapped around his too sharp bones, Poppy’s lips trembled.

“The scar on his forehead, I believe it to be magical in nature. I recall seeing it the night his parents died -- it still looks as if it is newly made,” Minerva whispered a shaky explanation. “But the non-magical wounds… I fear they are extensive, and I am not confident enough in my abilities. He is much too small. Too young. The bruise is on his face…”

Poppy had a warm light in her eyes as she looked toward the other witch. “You have done the best you could, given the circumstances.”

Minerva stayed silent as she watched her friend perform the complex wand work characteristic of diagnostic spells. Poppy held her wand aloft, hovering it over Harry’s body as she recited a string of incantations. Soft, soothing, blue tendrils of light touched the boy, but he could not have felt it; the only movement that he made was to scrunch his nose a little.

Poppy lowered her wand after reading the information reported by the spell, casting new -- more complex -- diagnostics as needed. Her eyes fell shut as she shook her head. 

She turned to Minerva then, face grave and blue eyes shining, as she said, “If he was not a wizard, he would have died already.”

Minerva’s face was unreadable as she nodded for the healer to continue.

“He has extensive fractures -- all improperly healed,” As she spoke, she gestured toward Harry, her magic lighting the bones that were misaligned, and poorly healed. There were too many. “There is significant internal bruising,” Poppy continued, voice unsteady, as his torso lit with angry purples and reds. It seemed there was not an organ undamaged. “The boy also has vitamin deficiencies due to malnutrition, which is why he’s so small for his age. He will probably have poor eyesight as well…”

“James Potter had poor eyesight,” Minerva interrupted.

Poppy shook her head in response, “Yes. Under normal circumstances, his eyesight would probably be the same as his father’s. But if his current condition is not remedied, it is very likely he will go blind.”

Minerva tried to keep herself steady, only managing a quiet, “I see.” 

She reached for the duvet, covering Harry before running her shaky fingers through his disheveled hair.

“These injuries  _ will  _ be remedied, Minerva, all of them,” Poppy said gently. The healer reached out, squeezing the other witch’s shoulder. “He will need to take vitamin and nourishment potions, daily. I trust that you have a cauldron lying somewhere?”

Minerva nodded, “I will have Bard guide you to the potions room. We’ve just replenished our stores.”

“I’ll get started on them immediately. They will not take long,” Poppy replied, squeezing her friend’s shoulder once more. “I suggest taking him to St. Mungo’s as well. They would be able to properly fix his fractures. And there is no telling with a simple spell the mental trauma he may have experienced.”

Minerva winced at that. “The boy  _ does _ think he is a scullery maid.”

“Visit soon, then,” Poppy said, grimacing.

Leading Poppy out of the room, Minerva closed the door. In a firm voice she called for Bard, who appeared with a loud pop. The elf bowed low in front of them. After Minerva told him to take Poppy to the potions room, Bard gestured for the blonde witch’s hand, preparing to disapparate.

“Oh, Minerva, I also wanted to mention,” Poppy said, squeezing the elf’s hand to wait. “Harry... Has some dark magic lingering about him,” the witch said, voice slightly grave, “But I am not entirely sure if it is just lingering residue from You-Know-Who’s spell. It is possible it might fade with time.”

Minerva furrowed her brows, “We have much work to do.”

* * *

An hour later, Minerva was sitting in her study, eyes glazed over as she considered the small bottles of potions in front of her. One bottle was filled with a pinkish liquid, the other a fizzing green concoction. One for vitamins, the other for nourishment. Harry was to drink all of the contents once a day for the next year; the bottles were spelled to automatically refill. Poppy had stressed, once more before she left, that they were to go to St. Mungo’s as soon as possible. 

Minerva promised they would go tomorrow morning, after she somehow explained all of this to a child who, it would seem, never had anyone really care for him. The blonde witch’s warm smile before she went back to Hogwarts gave Minerva the sense that everything will be okay.

A sudden gust of wind passed her face as a red screech owl flew through her open window. The small bird landed on a spare perch, a letter tied around its foot. Zephyr’s feathers bristled a little at the sight, but quickly settled as he recognized the familiar owl.

“Hello, Aerys,” Minerva called, starting towards the perch, “I trust you bring news from Augusta?”

The owl gave a small affirmative hoot in response, stretching his legs towards the witch. After Minerva untied the correspondence, she took a few mealworms from a small box, setting it on a small plate that hovered in front of Aerys. The owl gave an appreciative hoot.

_ Augusta… It has been a while since she wrote _ , Minerva thought, unfolding the letter. 

The Longbottom matriarch had been at the small funeral for Elphinstone three months ago, but she had not received a letter from her since. It was strange, Minerva mused, since Augusta’s correspondence  _ had  _ been one of the highlights of her everyday routine. 

As Minerva read the letter, however, it became increasingly clear why she had not sent any letters as of yet. Minerva gave a soft, reflective sigh, forgetting that Augusta’s grandson would be starting Wizarding Pre School this year as well.

_ Augusta’s grandson… _

“Wait a moment, please, Aerys,” Minerva told the bird, who was busily preening his wings, righting his ruffled feathers in preparation for his flight back. “I will have a response for Augusta in just a moment.”

* * *

“Harry, wake up dear,” Minerva said, keeping her voice soft and even.

She had been gently shaking the boy, trying to wake him for the past few minutes, worry increasing as every second passed. 

She had again been reading  _ Transfiguration Today  _ in Harry’s room, unable to focus without being sure the young boy was alright. He had started to toss and turn, growing restless in his sleep. Minerva thought nothing of it until he started to whine. 

The Transfiguration Professor considered soothing the young wizard with magic as she smoothed his hair back from his furrowed brow, but was hesitant to do so with his mind in such a delicate state.

“Harry, darling, wake up. You’re safe now,” She ran a gentle hand down his too thin back, taking care to have a light touch over his bruises.

With a sharp shout Harry woke. He sat up as confusion clouded his eyes and looked quickly around his room, fear spreading across his face at the unfamiliar surroundings. He finally took notice of Minerva, sitting on the edge of the bed, and his narrow shoulders drooped in relief. Then tears filled his eyes.

“Where is Dud?” The soft question was asked with all the worry a five-year-old could possess. “He coming here soon?”

Minerva’s stomach twisted itself into a knot. 

She knew these questions would happen eventually, though she still felt woefully unprepared to give Harry the answers, “Dudley is with his parents, dear.”

His soft “oh,” in response was so filled with sadness, it broke her heart to hear. Harry twisted his fingers in the blanket over his lap. 

“I go back soon?”

The auburn haired witch laced her fingers together to keep herself from reaching out for him, “No, Harry. It’s not safe for you there. Your Aunt and Uncle... They hurt you when they should have protected you. I am here to protect you now.”

The tears in Harry’s eyes finally spilled over, and his face crumpled in devastation. 

“Please, I want go back. Let me go back. Dud my friend,” he sobbed, curling in on himself.

Restraint crumbling, Minerva reached for the boy, pulling him on her lap and hugging him close, making soothing sounds while she fought her own tears.

“You can still be friends with Dudley. Perhaps we can go play with him in the park, would you like that?”

Harry nodded, sniffling. He buried his face into her soft green robes.

“I know of another boy in need of friends, would you be willing to play with him as well?” 

Harry looked up from Minerva’s now damp robes, tears slowing at the thought of a new friend.

“I can get new friends?”

“Of course, dear boy. And I imagine you will make many friends when you go off to school in autumn.” 

Harry’s eyes grew large at the thought of school. Minerva smiled softly in response, conjuring a soft cloth to dry his tears.

“School? I go?” Harry pushed himself back to look into Minerva’s face in his seriousness.

“Yes, darling. You will go to school come September, just like all wizarding children beginning at age five,” Harry’s green eyes shone with excitement. “But first you must learn your letters. Do you know how to read, Harry?”

Harry looked down toward the floor, shaking his head. 

In a quiet, almost embarrassed voice he continued, “Dud knows. I not know, I never learn.” 

Rage seeped through Minerva like an especially potent Malevolent Mixture. __

_ Of course those terrible Muggles saw no value in teaching a child not their own how to read. _

“No need to be ashamed Harry, I can teach you,” Harry’s head shot up, hope written plainly across his face. Minerva chuckled softly, pulling him close for another soft hug, “Would you like to begin now?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry seems to fluctuate between a regular excitable five-year-old, and a meek, unsure five-year-old. This was intentional on my part. The logic being that he's young enough to not be able to fully control his excitement over things. Thankfully, now he won't have to moderate his emotional responses.


	3. Healing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love last chapter! This is the last sort of introductory chapter dealing with the repercussions of Harry growing up with the Dursley's before you dive headfirst into the wizarding world.
> 
> As always feel free to drop me a comment if you're confused, or just enjoying the story so far! And, of course, please enjoy!

By the time Minerva woke -- again with the dawn; sleep, it seemed, would be in short supply for a while yet -- Harry was already awake.

The black haired wizard sat at the small writing desk situated under the arched double window of his room, working diligently on his letters, using the training quill Cuppy had found somewhere in the estate when he had heard about his Master’s need.

The views through that window were the best views of the estate, in Minerva’s opinion. The horizon was covered in the forest that separated the Urquart estate from the neighboring Muggle village. To the left, the edges of a sparkling pond were shining in the rising sun. The estate’s greenhouses were in full view on the right, elves could be seen already, even at such an early hour, harvesting vegetables, herbs, and potion ingredients needed for the day. And stretching across the center, between the two, a wide open field of grass of a deep green that could only be found in the Highlands of Scotland. Perfect for little boys to frolic and play.

Minerva cleared her throat softly, catching Harry’s attention as she moved closer to look over his progress. She was stunned at how quickly the boy had taken to using a quill -- it had taken her years to master the proper, delicate, handling needed to wield a quill efficiently, and with minimal splotching and smearing; to this day she still vastly preferred a fountain pen.

_ I suppose never having been taught letters with a Muggle writing instrument might just have been a blessing after all. There are no bad habits to break. _

“You’re doing quite well, Harry. How long have you been up? From the looks of this, it must have been a while.”

Looking mildly chastised, Harry answered, “I too excited about learning, I sorry.”

“That’s quite alright, dear. You must be hungry?” Harry’s enthusiastic nod brought a soft smile to the older witch’s lips. “Come along, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

Minerva kept an eye on Harry’s reactions as they made their way through their home. The boy’s eyes were full of wonder at the moving portraits, the suits of armor that saluted, and the ancient tapestries that they passed. If she were to be honest with herself, the Urqhart estate was grandiose. She supposed she had had the same reactions when she had first arrived at the small castle.

Although some aspects of the original castle-like fortress remained, the family dining room was bright. Centered in the room was a light wooden table, large enough to seat ten, a thick 14th century Persian rug settled beneath. The main feature of the room, however, was neither the old table, that had been in her husband’s family long before they settled in this area of Scotland, nor was it the rug that had been a gift from the Royal Family of Russia. Rather, it was the large windows, carved out with magic, that dominated the room, allowing the early morning sun to stream in. The clear blue pond beyond was reflecting the sun, and creating sunbursts against the nearby stables.

Harry gasped and rushed to the windows, carefully not touching the glass, Minerva noted. The witch let out a soft chuckle, her reaction when she first saw this room had been much the same.

“Aren’t you hungry, Harry?” She urged gently as she took her seat directly to the left of the traditional head of the table. Some habits were impossible to break.

She gestured Harry to the seat directly across from her. As soon as he had settled, the chair rose to the perfect height for the young boy.

Harry closely watched which food Minerva took, also taking small portions for himself. She quickly noticed how attentively he was studying the way she held and used her cutlery, and made a show of her actions. No need to uselessly embarrass the boy by bringing up proper table etiquette. He fumbled his fork slightly, shifting it to figure out a position that felt most comfortable to him, but caught on quickly enough.

As the meal was coming to a close Minerva gestured toward the potions that were next to his pumpkin juice.

“Those are for you, Harry. Think of them as daily vitamins, they will make you grow to be big and strong.”

He hesitated, looking a bit unsure of the colors and textures, before closing his eyes tight, drinking the Vitamin Tonic first. He wrinkled his nose at the slight wheatgrass taste, taking a deep drink of his pumpkin juice before reaching for the Nourishment Potion. This potion seemed to have a better flavor, as his green eyes popped open in surprise and he hummed slightly.

“Harry, dear, do you have bad dreams often?”

The boy looked absolutely terrified at the sudden question. He slouched lower in his chair as he reluctantly nodded.

“How would you like to go see someone to make the nightmares stop?” Minerva asked.

She was hopeful that the Mind Healer at St. Mungo’s might put an end to the nightmares more than anything. But she was unsure of how to explain to a young child, that the trauma they had experienced was not the normal state of things, and that there would be repercussions down the line if steps were not taken to heal said trauma.

Harry perked back up, “Magic can do that?”

“With a bit of dedication, and a lot of hard work, magic can do almost anything,” the excitement on his young face warmed something inside her that had been unreachable since Elphinstone had died.

* * *

Minerva realized, as they finally got into an examination room, she had let her Gryffindor side rule her. She had a right, as Godmother, to take Harry to the healers whenever they were needed. What she had not stopped to consider was other people’s actions and reactions to meeting The-Boy-Who-Lived.

_ What an utterly moronic name,  _ the witch thought derisively _. _

When they had arrived at St. Mungo’s, a Healer’s Aid had taken the preliminary information needed for any patient and had asked about the reason for their visit. When the Aid had found out who he had been treating, he proceeded to tell everyone he came across that Harry Potter was at St. Mungos. He even looked utterly  _ delighted _ to tell the staff that the young wizard looked to have been abused.

Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor, and Professor of Transfiguration had not seen such appalling behavior from students over 13 years of age.

She pinched the bridge of her nose as she thought to herself,  _ what an unmitigated disaster. This is what I get for being rash. If Albus finds out about this... _

Minerva was stone-faced as the Mind Healer finally came into the examination room. Before the young woman could take more than two steps toward Harry, the elder witch stepped in front of the boy.

“I hope it would not be too much to request a bit of professionalism during this consultation,” as Minerva’s pointed statement sunk in, the Healer straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin slightly.

“I understand the delicacy of the situation perfectly fine, Professor. I would like to apologize for Healer’s Aid Merigold’s behavior, he has already been thoroughly reprimanded.” Minerva felt relief, the likes of which she was not expecting. “You can rest assured that young Mr. Potter’s information and presence here will henceforth be private, as per the Patient Confidentiality Laws.”

“Thank you, Healer -?”

“Shafiq, Professor. I was a Ravenclaw during my Hogwarts years.”

A spark of recognition danced in Minerva’s eyes, and the older witch relaxed slightly. “Healer Shafiq. Yes, I do recall you apprenticing to Madam Pomfrey during the start of the Cursed Vaults fiasco.”

The Healer shook her dark curls in exasperation, “It’s astounding the amount of trouble students can find,” the younger witch smiled conspiratorially. “What ails Mr. Potter?”

Minerva moved to stand next to Harry, allowing the Healer to finally get a look at her patient. Healer Shafiq took in the fading bruise on his face, with no outward reaction. Minerva was grateful for that, she knew Harry was quickly becoming self-conscious about it.

“Hello, Harry. I’m Healer Esmeralda Shafiq.” The young Healer addressed her patient with a warm smile. “May I look at your scar? I promise it won’t hurt a bit.” She asked the boy, gesturing at the inflamed mark peaking through his hair.

Harry looked to Minerva for reassurance. The auburn haired witch squeezed his hand comfortingly, and he nodded his head in response.

With steady hands, the Healer brushed Harry’s hair aside and brought up her wand, casting a butter-yellow diagnostic charm to examine the scar. Mouth tightening slightly, the younger witch cast another mint-green charm. 

Putting down her wand, she turned and waved her hand toward a small stack of papers. She flipped through his file, making notes about the diagnostic, before continuing on. Seeming to find what she was looking for in the file, she asked, “Have you been having bad dreams, Harry?”

Minerva squeezed his hand again before he replied with a hushed, “Yes.”

“Let’s see if I can make them go away,” She said kindly, “I would just have to take a look at you again. Is that alright?”

Harry looked more nervous at the question, chewing on his bottom lip, unsure of what that might entail. The Healer continued, “It won’t hurt. It’s only to help me find out what’s going on.”

“Just a bit of magic, dear,” Minerva added, gently encouraging the boy.

Harry looked down in thought at that, shifting his feet. His mouth was downturned, brows furrowed and shoulders hunched inward in discomfort. Minerva moved to coax him again, when Healer Shafiq shook her head, allowing the boy a few more moments.

It worked. A few heartbeats later, Harry lifted his head and, eyes shining in determination, he responded with a soft, “Yes, please. I no like bad dreams.”

Healer Shafiq’s eyes softened at that. With a grin she asked, “Can I tell you a secret?”

A nod.

“Neither do I.”

Harry beamed in response. At the feeling of comradery, the tension he was holding in his shoulders released.

“Alright, Harry, can you look into my eyes, please?”

The boy and the healer made eye-contact, and Healer Shafiq cast the Legilimency Spell.

Minerva watched closely for any sign of discomfort in young Harry, shifting slightly as the minutes passed. Her worry was unfounded, however, as Harry did not flinch at all.

The healer blinked, signaling the end of the spell. Harry released a shuddering breath, sinking into Minerva’s side. The older witch instinctively started brushing through his hair with one hand, and rubbing soothing circles on his back on the other.

“That was very brave of you, Harry,” Healer Shafiq said. Minerva couldn’t help but notice the way the younger witch’s lips were now trembling slightly, her brows arched in mild worry even as she gave a small smile.

Harry turned his head towards the healer, still clutching Minerva’s robes. “It not hurt,” He explained, “But scary.”

“Yes, but we’ll make sure the bad dreams go away. I’m here to help you, Harry.”

“Okay.”

Healer Shafiq reached out a hand towards Harry, telling him that he could go into the playroom while she spoke with her old professor. At the mention of toys, Harry all but launched himself at the healer, who chuckled as she started to lead him to the adjacent room.

Minerva had moved to protest, but Healer Shafiq gave her a small mirror, explaining that they would still be able to see Harry as he played.

“Please take a seat, Professor,” the younger witch said, gesturing at the recently abandoned seat in front of the examination table, “We have a lot to talk about.”

“I figured as much,” Minerva responded, stealing herself.

Healer Shafiq’s face was tinged with a look of worry, but her voice never wavered as she told Minerva her diagnosis. From what she knew of the Dursleys, Poppy’s diagnoses, and her own observations, she knew that Harry’s mental faculties were not normal for his age. But Healer Shafiq had given her an even ghastlier image, one that she had to set aside for when she was alone and could afford to let out her emotions. The healer was incredibly hopeful, however, that the boy would fully recover. He would need gentle care, and as much socialization with other children as possible. They would have to pay weekly visits to St. Mungo’s as well, as Harry’s mind would still need to be tended to by the healer.

“He is also not aware of who you are, Professor,” the young witch said, voice lightening, amusement written on her face. “If you don’t mind me asking, is this a deliberate thing?”

Minerva’s cheeks reddened. “Not entirely,” She responded with a sheepish smile, “To be perfectly honest, the past few days have been a whirlwind of events. Unfortunately, it had not occurred to me that proper etiquette had been… breached.”

Healer Shafiq chuckled. “That is understandable. Though I do suggest introducing yourself sometime soon.”

Minerva could only give a stiff, embarrassed nod in response.

The younger witch stood up then, choosing to gather Harry’s files by hand, rather than summoning them. Minerva watched as she sat down in front of her once more. The healer had a pensive look to her, her eyebrow raised as she pulled out a piece of parchment from the stack.

“You’ve mentioned that Madam Pomfrey detected dark magic surrounding Harry,” she began, “And I detected that as well.”

“Is it a cause for concern?”

Healer Shafiq shook her head. “I’m not quite sure,” She replied, thoughtfully, “There are some parts of his mind that I can’t seem to access. As if it’s detached, for lack of better word, from him -- not his own. Whenever I get close to it, however, I sense the darkness in it.”

“It sounds insidious, Healer,” Minerva said, trying to keep the growing panic inside her at bay.

Healer Shafiq considered her old professor’s response first before replying. “I’m not entirely sure if it is, Professor. Madam Pomfrey could be correct in saying that the lingering magic might fade away. But maybe it will not. The best I can do for now is to monitor the situation.”

“I understand,” Minerva responded with a barely-concealed sigh.

The healer stood up then, with Minerva following suit. She gave the older witch an encouraging smile, shaking her hand. “He  _ will  _ be okay, Professor,” She said. Minerva silently wondered how many times she had said that to her patients, and how many actually turned out okay. She quickly shut the thought down.

“Oh! And before I forget,” Healer Shafiq reached into her pocket, and gave Minerva a roll of parchment. “His fractures can be righted with potions,” the younger witch explained, “My colleagues at the First Floor will be able to provide you with the right ones. Just show them this Healer’s Note.”

Shaking the healer’s hand again, Minerva smiled. “Thank you, Healer Shafiq.”

“Please call me Esmeralda, Professor,” She replied.

“Thank you, Esmeralda,” Minerva amended, her smile just a little brighter. “And I believe it is time to collect my godson?”

“Of course.”

* * *

“It’s time for bed, dear,” Minerva announced, leaning slightly against Harry’s door frame. The boy looked up from his position on his rug, his new toys strewn about him. In a stroke of pure genius, Minerva decided to bring Harry to Diagon Alley after his appointment at St. Mungo’s. 

There, they visited Quality Quidditch Supplies and Townsend’s Toys. She had to drag Harry out of both shops, promising to bring him back as soon as possible. They then made their way across the alley to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions so Harry could be fitted for a new wardrobe. The boy had not enjoyed that stop. He had asked to hold Minerva’s hand the entire time, nervous as the measuring tape took his sizes. As a reward for his bravery, she had indulged him with sugary treats at Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop.

Harry was now the proud owner of a set of gobstones, a child’s potions set, stackable blocks, color-changing dough, new wooden wizards to make his ‘army’ larger, another stuffed dragon, and a toy broomstick. Harry had to convince Minerva about the broom, the witch was terrified that he might get injured.

“Okay!” Harry chirped, putting his toys into his toy chest before bounding towards his bed. A new set of green, tartan pyjamas lay folded on the bed, courtesy of Cuppy. Harry changed into them, happy to wear clothes his own size. He then climbed into bed as Minerva moved to tuck him in.

“I have a… question,” Harry said, fumbling a little at the last word. A look of worry crossing his young face.

Minerva cocked a brow, “What is it, dear?”

“Healer’s name is Esme… Esmelda--” Harry started to explain.

The witch smiled at that. “Esmeralda,” She said, careful to enunciate the syllables. “What about her?”

Harry blinked at her, seeming to think about the name, but he shook his head. “No,” He replied emphatically. “Healer’s name is Esmeralda,” He started to explain again, slowing down at the name, “My name is Harry.”

Minerva tried not to frown in confusion. “That’s correct,” She responded. 

_ What is he trying to say? _

“Your name is?”

_ Oh. _

Minerva cleared her throat, unnerved at the sudden question. She supposed that she should have anticipated the query, especially after Esmeralda asked her about it earlier.

“My name, Harry, is Minerva McGonagall,” She said evenly, encouraged by the look of interest in the boy’s eyes. “I’m your godmother.”

“God… mother…?”

Minerva nodded. “It means that I will take care of you, Harry,” She explained, “For as long as I can.”

Harry’s brows furrowed at the statement, confusion clouding his features. “Take care… Like my mummy?”

Minerva’s mouth went dry. She was definitely unprepared for this.

“Like  _ a  _ mummy, Harry... ” Gathering that famed Gryffindor courage, she carefully responded, “I am here in  _ your  _ mummy’s place. Do you remember Lily?”

“Lily?”

She nodded. “Lily Potter. She was your mummy, Harry. She had red hair, but her eyes were very much like yours.”  _ Of course the boy won’t remember her, and perhaps that’s a blessing in disguise. _

“Mummy Lily… Did not want me?” Harry asked, close to tears.

Minerva shook her head, taking Harry’s hands into hers. “She loved you so very much, Harry,” She explained as gently as she possibly could.  _ Oh Merlin.  _ “But a... bad wizard… killed her.”

“Bad… wizard?”

“Yes, Harry. A very bad wizard. But he is gone now,” Minerva said, choking back her tears for what seemed like the hundredth time since the boy arrived in their home.

They sat there in silence for a little while, Harry drawing circles on his godmother’s palms. Minerva, for her part, allowed the boy his time, thinking about the day. 

She admitted it had been a  _ day _ , even for her, the little sprinkles of joy they had found in the Alley, at least, allowed her Godson to focus on happier things. But talking about death to a five-year-old, that was something that no one could ever properly be prepared for.

“Min… er…” Harry’s voice squeaked out, breaking the silence.

Minerva blinked in surprise. The boy’s face was scrunched in concentration, trying to sound out her name.

“Mi… Mi…”

Minerva let out a small sob-like chuckle at the attempt. As Harry was starting to get frustrated, however, she squeezed his hands. “You know, Harry,” Minerva said, and Harry looked up with a small frown. “Mimi is fine. But only for you.”

“Mimi is okay?”

“Yes, dear. I quite like it.”

The smile on Harry’s face didn’t leave him, even as he slept through the night.

* * *

Harry studied the young boy standing in front of him. He was a bit chubby, in the way that toddlers tended to be, with pale skin and a soft tuft of blond hair on his head. Harry was distinctly aware that the boy was a little taller than he was, but even still, the boy was curved in on himself, shifting his fingers and using his palms to smooth out his black pants. The boy’s hazel eyes shone with nervous unshed tears.

“Harry, this is Neville,” Minerva said, gently. She was kneeling down next to him, gesturing at the new people in his room. “He and his grandmother are here to visit.”

Harry appraised Neville again. The other boy was timidly looking back and forth between Harry, and his grandmother, who only raised an expectant eyebrow.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Harry,” Neville held out a slightly shaking hand.

Harry was distinctly unsure of how to respond to such a gesture. After Minerva made an encouraging noise at his side, he reached toward the offered hand, grasping it gently. His heart was pounding in his chest, he needed to stop being so nervous or he feared the taller boy would never come to like him.

“D’you like to play toy wizards?” The question was an olive branch, to break the awkwardness that surrounded both the young wizards. It seemed to have worked when the boy -- Neville, Harry recalled, nodded quickly. Then the children were off, toward the toy chest.

Minerva gave a sigh of relief before standing and brushing out her robes -- today a deep blue.

“Come Augusta, let's leave the boys to their battle. Knicks has prepared tea in the study.”

Augusta Longbottom watched the children interact a few seconds more before nodding in agreement, and following her long-time friend from the room.

“Is it entirely wise to leave the children unattended when they’ve just met?” Augusta questioned on her way down the hall.

Minerva gave an understanding smile, “Not to worry, Cuppy will keep a close eye on them and alert us if we’re needed. They will never properly socialize with us hovering like vultures.”

Minerva gave a pointed look toward the vulture-stuffed hat Dame Longbottom has favored since the death of her husband, Elwood.

Augusta scoffed, though a half-smile spread slowly across her face.

“It’s not young Harry I’m worrying over,” Augusta began, taking her seat next to the unlit fireplace in the study. “It’s Neville.”

“Has something happened?” The auburn-haired witch sat across from Augusta and summoned the service over from its place on the desk.

“Nothing untoward, Minvera. Simply, he is not as his father was at that age, and it is a cause for worry.”

Minerva proceeded to make her afternoon tea by hand, before she sat back with her cup and asked, “I am not sure I understand what you’re saying, Augusta.”

Augusta, in the process of fixing her own tea, summoned Minerva’s whiskey to add a splash into her drink. The familiarity of the gesture would have ranckled had the two witches not been friends since their first year at Hogwarts.

“The boy has had absolutely no bouts of accidental magic. It is concerning, Minerva. Both of his parents were magically strong. I’ll admit, I had my doubts about Alice at the start, but she proved herself to be a more than capable witch,” Augusta shifted back into her chair, bringing her tea to her lips for a delicate sip before she continued, “Not one hint of magic, not even when Algie pushed him off of Blackpool Pier and he almost drowned.”

Minerva set her cup down with a sharp clack. “I take you to mean, Algie Longbottom, who himself possesses less magical capacity than most, is trying to provoke accidental magic out of his five-year-old nephew.”

“It is not as harsh as all that. There is worry amongst the family that he may be a squib.”

“I am shocked at you, Augusta Clementine Longbottom!” Minerva responded, her eyebrows raised as her voice colored with consternation. “You know magic manifests when it will. If I am not mistaken, your Elwood once said he did not have a single bout of accidental magic until he was neigh on eight years old.”

A look of shock crossed the Longbottom Matriarch's face then, looking for all the world like a fish out of water as she tried to form words. “How could I have forgotten such a thing?” Her voice was a choked whisper.

* * *

Back in Harry’s bedroom, the boys were busily waging war. The toy wizards had changed the color of their robes, half dressed in green and half in blue, at the polite request of their young commanders. Neville and his blue wizards were charging at Harry’s green, springing out from a “barracks” made of blocks. The toy wizards’ wands were aloft, and sparks flew around the room, lighting up the children's faces with reds, oranges, blues, and yellows. Each boy had his own guardian dragon to use when his troops were in dire need, hovering atop their heads and watching the battle unfold.

“Go! Go!” Yelled Neville, urging half of his thirty wizards forward, his own fists shaking in the air in determination. His earlier shyness and apprehension was gone, replaced with playful wonder, especially after Harry shared some of his sweets with him.

“Attack!” Harry yelled at his troops in encouragement, eyes widening as the bulk of his forces took Neville’s on. The toy wizards’ wands shot out puffs of air along with the sparks of light; the goal was to knock down as many of your opponent’s wizards as possible. The game ended when one army was all knocked down.

Toy wizards from both sides started to fall down, buffeted by the jets of air, their resistance giving way. Suddenly, the boys’ dragons launched towards the rug, landing in front of their respective armies. As per the boys’ rules, the dragons were only allowed to aid the troops a few seconds at a time, for a total of three times in the entire game. The dragons were also not allowed to use their front limbs--that would knock over too many wizards; instead, they could only roar, and breathe warm puffs of air. With surprising accuracy, the dragons picked out their opponents, giving magical bursts of wind, knocking toy wizards down faster.

The battle waged on and the dragons tried their best to strategically come to their armies’ rescue. The toy wizards utilized the ‘terrain’ around them, units hiding behind scattered blocks and within tented books before attacking their opponents once more. Neville and Harry would often talk to their hidden armies in hushed tones, telling them the next plan of attack, as any good commander would. 

The forces were evenly matched until Neville’s reserved wizards started to mount a counter-attack as their comrades in the vanguard were slowly overwhelmed. Harry’s grin had reached his ears as he allowed his remaining wizards to advance further against Neville’s, until he quickly realized that Neville’s reinforcements had arrived.

“You won, Nev!” Harry beamed, taking the defeat of his forces in stride. The toy wizards all sent up sparks of celebration, shaking hands with each other. The dragons both let out a  _ hrrr  _ of delight as they flew down, joining the festivities.

Neville smiled widely, his hazel eyes shining. “I won! That was good! You fought well, Harry” The blond boy responded, shaking his new friend’s hand.

Smile unwavering, Harry took out some more sweets, being careful not to overdo it as Mimi had told him at breakfast. He gave some Treacle Fudge to Neville, which the boy preferred, while Harry tried to wrangle a Chocolate Frog into his mouth. The boys sat near each other, talking about their game excitedly.

“Is Minerva your mummy, Harry?” Neville suddenly asked innocently, “I didn’t know she had a son.”

Harry’s face fell a little at the question, but Neville did not seem to notice. “Mimi is my…” Harry frowned, trying to think of the word his godmother used. “Godmummy,” He finished, smiling a little as he remembered, before downturning again. “My mummy was killed by a bad wizard.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Neville said, voice quiet, finally noticing his friend’s distress. “My mummy and daddy are alive, but Gran said they can’t live with us.”

“Why?”

Neville chewed on his Treacle Fudge before continuing. “I don’t know,” Neville replied, eyes starting to water. “Gran said they’re not really okay.”

“I is sorry, Nev,” Harry said, patting the other boy’s knee.

Neville suddenly showed him a toothy grin. “ _ I am  _ sorry,” The blonde boy repeated, emphasizing the middle word. 

“I… is... sorry?” Harry said, his brows knit in confusion.

“No no,” Neville explained, his voice light with amusement, “Gran said you must say ‘I  _ am _ sorry’, not ‘I  _ is  _ sorry’”

Harry’s face crumpled again, his cheeks red with embarrassment as he looked down. He knew he was getting better at his letters and speaking in proper sentences -- Mimi told him as much -- but he often forgot some things, and using ‘am’ was one of them. His godmother told him not to be ashamed, that it was all part of learning, but he did not like making mistakes.

“But don’t worry! I did that too. Gran corrected me a lot,” Neville quickly added, nudging Harry’s shoulder a little. “She says you must always use proper language.”

“Really?” Harry asked, voice tentatively hopeful.

Neville brightened, “Yes. And she told me I have to read a lot-”

Harry leapt to his feet at that, green eyes shining with wonder. “You can read?!” The dark-haired boy asked, already pulling Neville up by his hands, “Teach me!!”

“Well, I’m not good at it yet-”

But Harry had dragged him over to his bookshelf already, and Neville watched as he took out book upon book and set it near his desk. Neville picked one up, curious, and saw that the book did not have as many pictures.

“Harry, I don’t think I’ve read these before,” Neville said aloud, panic slowly rising up to his chest at the thought of disappointing his friend. But Harry’s eyes were bright with wonder, giving the blond boy a conspiratory grin before replying.

“I haven’t either. But we can read them together.”

* * *

It had been another busy day for the new family, and it showed at the dinner table -- where Harry seemed to be dozing into his dessert more than eating it. Minerva smiled fondly at her sleepy godson, immensely pleased with how the meeting between the two young wizards had turned out.

It seemed her fear that Harry would have difficulty making friends was unfounded. After she and Augusta finished tea -- and exchanged a few philosophical words on raising children -- they had found the boys in a mess of toys and books. Harry was reading aloud from what looked like a Muggle children’s book, while Neville was supplying the words that Harry did not know. Occasionally, they would both stop at a word neither of them knew, promising each other to ask one of their guardians later.

Before they left, Harry had earnestly asked both Neville and Augusta to come back soon. The smile on his face was wide when the normally stern-faced witch gave him her own smile, and said that she and Neville were already planning to visit again next week.

“Harry,” Minerva gently began, waiting for her godson to lift his head up. With a mighty effort, Harry blinked at her, green eyes swimming with sleep. Biting back a chuckle, she continued, “I thought you might be pleased to know that you and Neville will be at the same Pre School come autumn.”

Harry gave her sleepy blink. Then another. Then, when the words started to sink in, he gave the largest grin Minerva had yet seen on his face.

“Really?!”

“Yes, dear. I asked his grandmother earlier. She agreed -- thought it was an excellent idea, really.”

Harry’s ecstatic, sleepy, smile was more than worth the hour-long debate Minerva had to have with Madam Longbottom, to ensure the young wizards' pre-Hogwarts education would not suffer by switching to the Inverness Pre School.

“I do believe it’s past time from bed,” Harry had started to nod off into his Cranachan again. The dessert was one Minerva had grown up enjoying during the summer months, and she was delighted that Harry enjoyed it as much as she had.

It took the help of Cuppy, and some gentle coercing by Minerva to coax the dark-haired wizard to his drowsy feet.

Minerva tucked the soft red duvet around Harry. Brushing his hair back from his face, she cast a teeth cleansing charm -- just this once, oral hygiene was important, and the charm simply did not do as good a job. But, the boy had had a very busy day, so she was willing to make this exception.

Minerva bent down, moving on instinct, and pressed a soft kiss just to the right over Harry’s cursed scar.

“Good night, sweet boy.”

The auburn-haired witch was not expecting a response, as she turned and made her way to the door. Harry’s soft, “Good night, Godmummy,” took her by complete surprise.

She froze at Harry’s name for her, cheeks turning a soft pink, and allowed a soft, secret smile to grace her lips.

Brushing out her hair before bed, Minerva realized that although she had taken Harry in to rescue him from a life of untold horrors, her godson was also healing her in ways she no longer thought possible. Even though Elphinstone was not with her anymore, Minerva McGonagall had something to live for again. She had a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter stage left Neville.
> 
> P.S. To those of you who clicked on the story soon after I posted the new chapter, I am so sorry! I accidently posted chapter four in place of chapter three! I have since taken down the misposted chapter, and put the proper one in its place. I apologize for the confusion. *faceplam*


	4. Growing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the love last chapter! This chapter spans for a few years, just snippets of Harry's childhood with Minerva. I know we're all dying to get to Hogwarts.
> 
> As always feel free to drop me a comment if you're confused, or just enjoying the story so far! And, of course, please enjoy!
> 
> P.S. To those of you who clicked on the story soon after I posted the last chapter, I accidently posted this chapter instead. So you may need to go back to read the proper chapter three. I am so sorry! I apologize for the confusion. *faceplam*
> 
> P.P.S. I'm posting on Sunday instead of Monday because I start my new job tomorrow. Also because of this, I may need to shift posting to every other Monday instead of weekly, so I have time to pay this story proper attention while having time to edit about 12 times.

A puff of soot shot out from the chimney, dirtying the dark navy Amaya rug covering the floor of the sitting room where the public Floo was attached. A slender, young boy with messy dark hair stepped out from the alcove housing the fireplace then, dusting off his black school robes with a small sneeze. 

A loud  _ pop  _ sounded the arrival of a house elf, grin wide as he bowed at his master. The young boy gave the elf a low bow as well; both giggling as they looked at the mess about them.

“Hello, Mr. Cuppy,” Harry began. At first, it had been quite nerve-wracking to use the Floo to get home from Pre School, but he had quickly gotten used to it. Besides, he got covered head-to-toe in soot; it was one of the only times his godmother allowed him to be that dirty.

Cuppy grinned again before replying, “Hello, Young Master Harry. Missy Minny is being in the study. There is being cakes and tea laid out for Young Master there.”

“Perfect, I would like some cakes and tea,” Harry said with a smile. Then, with a snap of his fingers, Cuppy vanished soot around them. With a flourish of his hand, the elf cleaned Harry and his bag off. The boy giggled at the sensation, then tried to wrangle his hair down, in an effort to make it as presentable as possible on his way toward the study.

“Welcome back Harry,” Minerva called out, smiling when she saw her godson enter. She quickly noted that Harry’s robes had started to get a little small for him -- his ankles were showing slightly as he walked towards the table. In the three months that he’d been with her, the boy was growing as fast as the dandelion weeds the elves waged war against every spring. 

Those yellow flowers were quite charming, at first. But an absolute menace when they started to spread. Even Minerva, ever the consummate Gryffindor, wanted nothing more than to vanish them in an effort to cease their constant roaring when they accumulated in large numbers. But the wine that resulted from the obnoxious weeds was unlike any other.

Harry was no longer skin and bones, courtesy of his budding appetite and daily nutrient potions. Nor was he quite as short. According to his last physical check up, Harry was finally within the average height range for his age. Healer Shafiq had also reduced their visits to once every fortnight -- the boy’s mind was strengthening, and he was not having nightmares regularly anymore. He had also made leaps and bounds with his command of English. They were still worried about the dark magic surrounding his mind, but for all intents and purposes, Harry Potter was growing to be a normal wizarding boy.

“Hello, Godmummy,” Harry said, beaming. He climbed onto his chair -- he didn’t have as much trouble with that anymore -- which shot up only a little once he sat down, as he still did not quite reach the top of the table.

Putting down her teacup, Minerva cleared her throat. “How was school, Harry?” She asked.

“It was good,” Harry said, green eyes shining with excitement. “We learned about magical creatures today. Neville was scared, but I really liked it!”

“What kind of magical creatures did you learn about?”

“Well, Lady Spinella told us about centaurs, and Veela, and goblins,” Harry began, furrowing his brows in concentration, “Not much about the Veela though, she said they’re very… They have a lot of secrets.”

“Secretive,” Minerva supplied warmly.

Harry nodded and took a moment to say the word aloud. “They’re secretive,” He said again, with five-year-old authority. “And then we learned about house elves. I told them about Mr. Cuppy and Ms. Knicks and Mr. Bard and Mrs. Tilly and Mr. Tipsy - ”

Minerva allowed Harry to continue for a few moments, listening with amusement as he listed off almost all of the fifteen house elves at the estate. Over the summer, he and Neville had made it their mission to memorize the elves’ names. If she remembered correctly, Harry was at thirteen.

“Did you learn about the Samhain celebration that is to take place tomorrow?” Minerva questioned, stealing the last Ginger Newt before Harry could. The boy was developing a taste for them to rival her own.

Excitement lit Harry’s green eyes, and he bounced slightly in his seat as he launched into everything he was taught about the traditional Samhain rituals that were still observed by the Wizarding World.

Samhain had existed since before Merlin and Morgana. It was a ritual meant to connect those blessed with magic with the inherent earth magics. As the holiday is situated between the Autumnal equinox and the Winter solstice, it is this time when the Wizarding World celebrates all those they have lost, and thank the powers that be for all they still have. Samhain has been so prevalent that it has even come to exist in the Muggle world as a harvest festival, or, more recently, it is known as Halloween. 

“Harry, darling, you know that one aspect of the holiday is celebrating loved ones that have been lost,” Minerva trailed off, waiting until Harry nodded, making himself a second cup of tea that was more milk and sugar than anything. “I am going to celebrate my husband -- Elphinstone. Would you like to join me?”

Harry’s eyes grew wide at the thought. He had come across his Godmother’s husband’s portrait in his explorations of the estate. Elphinstone’s portrait always had the best tips for finding hidden passageways and secrets of the estate and the surrounding grounds -- the ones that his wife approved of, of course.

Setting down his cup, and wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin, Harry nodded seriously. In some ways, Elphinstone had become his friend. 

“Yes, please,” The boy replied.

Minerva released a soft sigh, eyes softening toward the boy as she took a sip from her tea.

From behind her tea cup, the Transfiguration Professor further questioned, “Would you also like to celebrate your parents?”

Harry’s shoulders stiffened. He felt ashamed, his parents had not crossed his mind in the months he had been with his godmum. There were passageways to explore, house elves to play with, schoolwork to do, and sweets to eat. Fidgeting with his napkin, he couldn’t make eye contact with the elder witch as he nodded slowly, studying the table under his tea cup.

* * *

The next day, Harry was up much earlier than had become his norm. He sat at his desk beside his bed, and tried to get a headstart on his homework, while actually staring out at the slowly lightening grounds of the Urquart Estate. He wondered about the ritual he would be a part of at dusk. But mostly, his mind wandered to thoughts of his parents -- about what they were like, if they would be proud of him, and if they would forgive him for not thinking of them every day.

He did not sit still for long, however. As soon as he had permission, the young wizard was out on the grounds. He wanted to bring flowers to his parents. Lady Spinella had said in class the day before that flowers were a traditional gift to collect for loved ones on the other side of the veil, as they were important in the ritual that took place at midnight. The flower collection was to be done the day of the visit, and while thinking of those for whom they are intended. His teacher had also explained that with thoughts of those to be visited, magic would help to ensure the appropriate flowers were chosen.

Harry wandered past the greenhouses, edging closer to the forest, before he closed his eyes and thought of his parents. He didn’t have many clear memories left of them, but he did have sensations, muddled sounds, and smell.

The one thing that he could remember of his mother was the way her hair smelled. As a baby, before he could even open his eyes, the smell was there. His mother would rock him in her arms, and his nose would be filled with the scent. It was so distinct, and it was  _ there _ , in the very far reaches of his mind.

Harry suddenly stopped walking. Then, he grinned as he smelled the scent of his mother’s hair more clearly than ever before, opening his eyes he saw he was within a clearing of Scottish Primrose. The small purple blossoms so thick across the clearing that he could hardly make out the grass beneath. He took a deep breath, and felt his shoulders relax with the exhale.

“Mr. Cuppy?” Harry questioned softly, not wishing to break the peace he had found in this flower-filled glade.

The house elf appeared with soft  _ pop _ , as if he too was aware of the atmosphere, and did not wish to disrupt it.

“Young Master calls Cuppy?” Even the elf’s voice was pitched softer.

“Yes, I forgot to grab a basket. Will you please help me pick some of these for my Mummy?” Harry’s face flushed as he admitted that he was not well prepared, but Cuppy paid his embarrassment no mind.

“Of course Young Master, Cuppy can be helping.”

With that both the wizard and elf set about reverently collecting the delicate purple flower that smelled of Lily Potter’s hair. Once the basket Cuppy had conjured was half full, Harry stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers. Cuppy moved closer to his Wizard, seeming to know without asking that they were not yet finished.

Harry closed his eyes and thought of his father. He tried to remember the man’s voice -- a gentle, hearty sound that was just out of Harry’s consciousness. It almost whispered at him; he could hear the word  _ Prongslet,  _ a name now so unfamiliar to him, and yet he  _ knew  _ it was still so much a part of him. Clasping hands with Mr. Cuppy, the two started making their way back toward Urquart Estate, following the pull of Harry’s magic.

The pair were led to the greenhouses that Harry had wandered past without care when gathering his mother’s flowers. Inside was humid, and much, much larger than it appeared from the outside. Glancing around, Harry realized that he had never adventured here during his rambles of the Estate’s grounds.

Harry and Cuppy wandered through rows of vegetables, herbs, and flowers of all shapes and sizes before they stopped in front of an abundance of white Amaryllis flowers. The plant was lush and verdant, perfect to take more than they could possibly need.

After the flower gathering, Cuppy insisted the gifts be left with him. He promised he would make them into the most beautiful wreath for his Young Master’s parents.

The rest of the day was spent sitting with his godmother in the conservatory. The room was full of flourishing plants, and sunlight. Harry sat at the round table, close to the back patio doors. Mimi was teaching him the proper way to make an offering for Samhain, using her husband’s wreath as an example. It required a light, cheery atmosphere -- hence the conservatory. It also involved feelings of light, love, and protection. With these intentions in mind, magic would do the rest. 

The day simultaneously passed much too quickly, and entirely too slowly, but before Harry knew it, he was standing back in his godmother’s study, clutching her elbow in preparation to apparate to Godric’s Hollow.

If he was being honest, apparation was Harry’s least favorite way to travel. It tended to leave him dizzy and nauseous. 

_ Perhaps it will be different when I can apparate myself _ , he thought. 

The young wizard was pulled from his musing when he felt like he had been forced and twisted through a tube that was five sizes too small.

“Are you quite alright, Harry?” Minerva questioned as the boy kept a hold of her arm. Looking a bit pale, he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth steadily. The auburn haired witch had taught him that the first time she had apparated them in Diagon Alley.

With a shaky nod, Harry finally released Minerva’s arm. Taking a step forward with a deep breath he lifted his head and looked around, careful not to crush the purple and white wreath of flowers he had insisted on carrying.

They had appeared at the center of the small village. When she saw the memorial, she instantly realized that that was a mistake.

_ Of course they would memorialize James and Lily’s death with an unwieldy statue. And why was Harry carved in stone as well?!  _ Minerva would forever be astounded by how indelicate the Wizarding World could be to tragedies.

Harry took a step closer to the monument, looking up at it with shiny eyes. Of course, he couldn’t remember what his parents looked like, try as he might. But as he looked upon the statue, he could have sworn he heard his dad’s soft voice and his mother’s laughter in the wind. The witch and wizard that were depicted in stone was  _ them _ , and it made his heart ache to see it.

His godmother ushered him away from the monument that doubled as a fountain before he could read the plaque, which may have been for the best.

The village of Godric’s Hollow was not a large community, so it was not difficult for Minerva to locate the cemetery where the Potters were laid to rest. The trick came when the elder witch had to maneuver Harry in a manner that avoided the ruins of Potter Cottage. The boy was much too young to see the more concrete physical evidence of the loss of his family.

Harry only had eyes for the cemetery once he had spotted it. Once he passed the stone boundary separating the place of rest from the road he made his way straight to the tombstone of his parents. He wasn’t sure how he knew where they were. But there was a feeling in his chest that tugged and pulled at him. He arrived at his parents’ graves within moments, his godmum a couple steps behind. 

Harry studied the marble headstone closely, then turned to Minerva in confusion.

“What does, ‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’ mean?” He read the epitaph slowly, not wanting to mess up any of the words.

Minerva rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze before she admitted, “I’m not sure, dear.”

Harry nodded, not asking any further questions. He set the wreath in a place of honor in the center of the tombstone, bowing his head for a moment.

He knelt down, close enough that his knees brushed the edge of the stone. He pressed one hand to Lily’s name, and the other to James’. 

“Hello, mummy, daddy, it’s me, Harry,” His voice was soft in the way only children seem to be able to manage. “I sorry I haven’t visited. I not know where you were.”

Minerva’s throat was tight with tears. The witch was suddenly incredibly thankful for whatever powers laid James and Lily Potter to rest in Godric’s Hollow instead of the more traditional Potter Manor. As she had no memory of where, exactly the Manor was located.

The witch listened as Harry told his parents all about what had been happening in his life. The boy sounded excited but still quiet, like if he spoke much louder his voice would break. She thanked Merlin, Morgana, and all the magical deities that existed that Harry was allowed this chance to commune, to mourn, and to heal.

The early afternoon quickly shifted into late afternoon, and Harry knew they would have to leave soon to visit Elphinstone and begin their Samhain ritual. The messy haired wizard quietly said goodbye, until next year, before he stood and reached for his godmother. Harry buried his face into her soft black skirts and finally let his tears fall.

Minerva reached down and scooped the boy up to hug him close, throwing all sense of propriety and decorum to the wind -- that’s what privacy wards were for after all. The witch sank to her knees, and settled her boy across her lap. Brushing his hair away from his face, she started singing a soft Scottish lullaby that her mother used to sing to her when she was distressed as a child. 

By the time Harry had settled, sniffling softly into her neck, there was an hour left until dusk.

“Come, Harry. Let’s tell Elphinstone all about your most recent adventures.” 

Harry stood, sniffling softly before he offered Minerva a hand to help her up. She was floored by the gesture, but gracefully accepted. It seemed those Wizarding decorum classes he had twice a week in Pre School were making an impression.

Just outside the gates of the cemetery, Minerva wrapped her Godson in her arms again, and the two apparated away.

* * *

The communion with Elphinstone was much lighter for Harry. He sat on his knees next to his Godmother, silently telling the wizard he considered as a ghostly uncle all of his and Neville’s newest adventures. Minerva placed a wreath of Aloe and red Camellia at Elphinstone’s grave stone, and she stood. Harry followed suit, placing his wreath of Geranium and Hydrangea beside his godmother’s, and followed the witch to the prepared circle not far away, directly under the light of the rising crescent moon.

Harry was unsure of how to proceed with the ritual. Lady Spinella had told them that the ritual was not something they needed to learn until they were a bit older. Neville had whispered that his Grandmother planned to have him participate in the Longbottom ritual this year. Both boys, it seemed, were unprepared.

But it became quite apparent that the black haired wizard shouldn’t have worried. Minerva explained every step of the ritual, from the lighting of the four white candles, placed at the cardinal directions. She had Harry light the candles clockwise, starting with the northernmost candle. While he was doing this, he was to think as clearly as possible of those among the lost they wished to commune with.

Following Harry around the circle, Minerva sprinkled the petals of the flowers placed at the graves they had visited that day.

Once the full circle was made, the atmosphere changed. Magic could be felt in the air, like the charge just before a lightning storm. Harry moved to the spot just behind the candle placed to represent the east, while his godmum took the spot directly across from him at the westernmost candle.

Minerva had explained to him beforehand that he was to remain focused on those the ritual was intended for -- those they lost, and for those who were still with them -- while she called for magic to bless the ritual.

In a quiet but strong voice, Minerva began, “Mother Magic bless this circle, laid with pure heart and pure intention. We come to you at this hour to bless those lost to us, Elphinstone Everett Urquart, James Charlus Potter, and Lily Juniper Potter. We offer unto thee, petals collected with clean hands and clear minds.”

Harry’s nervousness began to mount, this was the part of the casting that he was most unsure of. 

Minerva continued to speak, in a smooth strong cadence, “We offer magical blood, given with a pure heart.”

The Professor met Harry’s nervous eyes and gave a small reassuring nod. Leading by example, the elder witch made a slice across her dominant hand, shallow enough to allow for three drops of blood to land on the flames of her candle. There was a soft golden flash, as her offering was accepted.

Harry gripped the dagger Minerva passed over in a shaky fist. Hesitating a second longer, he felt a swell of warmth and protection caress his back. The dark-haired wizard squared his small shoulders and scored his own palm, trying to contain his grin when his offering was accepted. With a soft gasp Harry looked at his hand, the cut was stitching itself together with the same warm golden light.

When he met Mimi’s eyes, her smile was proud enough to make his cheeks redden.

“So we have offered, so it shall be. Bless those we lost with peace of heart, and bless those among us with strength for another year. So I say. So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” Harry echoed.

A golden dome appeared in front of them and, with Minerva’s slight nod, the witch and wizard stepped further into the circle and sat down, enveloped by the light. The cold Scottish wind couldn’t reach them within the dome’s protection -- there was only warmth, and the comforting presence of Magic.

“Harry, would you like to hear a story?” Minerva asked, gesturing for her godson to sit next to her.

Harry nodded, yawning slightly. With shaky knees, he started toward his godmother, tucking himself into her side once he sat down. “Yes, Mimi,” He responded softly.

Stifling a chuckle, Minerva began her story. “The story is about a letter, written by a Muggle man to his wife. It was the last letter he ever wrote. He was from America. Do you know where that is, Harry?”

Harry squeezed her hand and gave the slightest of nods.

“He was fighting in a war, fighting for what he thought was right. He would eventually die from this war, but not before he wrote his wife a letter.”

“What did it say?”

Minerva smiled slightly, pressing her lips to Harry’s head before continuing. “That his love for her was deathless. Much like the love of your mother and father continues to be for you.”

Harry stayed silent, but squeezed her hand once more - an assent for her to continue.

“At the end, in his letter, the man told his wife,” Minerva began, remembering the words her father often recited for her, “ _ If the dead can come back to this earth, and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you in the garish day, and the darkest night amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours always, always. _ ”

The golden dome around them hummed with energy, as if magic was also listening intently to the sentiments of a man who had died long ago and, though without magic, had within him a force just as powerful.

Minerva continued, “ _ And, if the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air cools your throbbing temples, it shall be my spirit passing by. _ ” Minerva brushed Harry’s hair, and the boy snuggled closer to his godmother.

“ _ Do not mourn me dear; think I am gone, and wait for me, for we shall meet again. _ ” Minerva finished, her eyes watering. Before he died, Elphinstone had found a copy of the letter written in her father’s hand. She had allowed him to keep it, thinking nothing of the letter. But her husband became quite enamored with the words, and soon after, much like her father had for her mother, he started to recite it as well. She didn’t know what to make of that when he was alive, but now, she understood.

The next morning when Harry woke, he discovered the golden dome of magic had dissipated. The young wizard sat up from his place snuggled into Mimi’s side, with a wide yawn and a stretch. Minerva was already awake, reading the  _ Daily Prophet  _ that was hovering over her face.

“Good morning, dear boy, how do you feel?” The elder witch sat up in a manner that suggested she too was not sore from spending the night sleeping on the unforgiving ground.

Harry paused, taking inventory of his body. A wide smile spread across his face, “I feel like I drank ten Pepper Up potions in a row,” he exclaimed with a joyous laugh. “It’s just like magic!”

A surprised laugh burst from Minerva’s chest as Harry hopped up and ran across the back garden.

_ Like magic indeed, sweet boy. _

* * *

The first time Harry saw his godmother as a cat, he was six years-old. He had a bout of accidental magic when he was playing out near the pond. He had somehow managed to transport himself within the middle of said pond, and tried not to panic as he was submerged into the cold water that was characteristic of the Scottish Highlands year round. Focusing as he was taught in school, he thought of the bank and, after a few terrifying seconds, he found himself on the ground once more. Hugging his knees to his chest, he shivered, tears welling in his eyes. 

A tabby cat had suddenly appeared in front of him then, rubbing its head against his hands, trying to calm him down. Harry wrapped his shaking arms around the cat, pulling it tight, and burying his face into its fur. Warmth seemed to spread from the friendly feline and suffused the young wizard’s shivering limbs. 

When he had calmed down some, he pulled his face out of the scruff of the cat’s neck. Giving Harry a steady look, the cat suddenly transformed into his godmother, who immediately rambled about ponds and safety and magic. Her Scottish brogue was thick and almost intelligible, with Harry only catching a few words in his surprise. She spoke of how the tabby Animagus felt the urge to give into her inner cat that morning. She ranted about how she was hunting gnomes near the back gardens when she saw Harry soaked and shivering near the pond. 

It took about three weeks of persistent pestering and five pinky promises to act responsibly, before the Transfiguration Professor promised to teach Harry to become an animagus. But only after he had started Hogwarts.

The second time Harry saw his godmother as a cat was a few months ago, when he and Neville got hopelessly lost in the forest. They had wandered about for almost an hour, had no luck orienting themselves and were starting to panic. Not only that, but Neville was almost positive the sun was due to set very soon. After ten more minutes of wandering in what felt like circles, the duo stumbled across Mimi sitting on a fallen log, as if she had been waiting for them. Harry could tell by the flick of her tail as the two followed her out of the woods and back to the Estate, that they were in big, big trouble.

Now, here, Harry was sitting on a swing in the playground that he used to go to -- the one he and Dudley played at. The cat watched him at the playground from afar, and Harry wondered why his godmother wasn’t a hawk instead.  _ She sits still enough to be a hawk on the hunt. _

It had taken almost a month, and the promise to do his Magical Origins project well  _ before  _ it was due, for Harry to convince his godmum to allow him to come there. The other compromise made was the feline supervision, as it had been over two years since the green eyed boy set foot in the Muggle World.

Harry studied the playground closely, not entirely sure how to feel about its state. For all that the playground was the same, it was also falling into what could only be described as disrepair. 

_ It was,  _ Harry supposed,  _ the less popular of two playgrounds in the area. _

The young wizard had sat for so long on the swing, staring toward the sky, with not a soul aside from himself and his Godmother in the distance, that when he heard a throat being cleared, he almost fell off the seat.

Harry jerked his attention to the small group of boys around his age. They were a group of only five boys, and Harry was stunned at his luck to recognize the boy in front--the one that had cleared his throat--as his cousin.

Recognition also flashed through Dudley’s eyes, and his hands balled into two large meaty fists.

Harry considered his cousin for a moment. The blonde boy had changed immensely in the past two years. He had always been tall enough to loom over Harry, but now it looked like his bulk had overtaken his height. Slowly, Harry stood, shocked to see that he was actually marginally taller than his first childhood friend.

“Hi-,” Harry started, in as even a voice as he could manage. He couldn’t understand  _ why,  _ in Merlin’s name, he was so nervous. Yes, it had been two years, but he literally grew up with Dudley. There was no time in his memories when he was  _ not  _ in Harry’s life.

Dudley snorted and cut Harry off, “You don’t get to speak, freak.” The group of boys flanking Dudley chuckled, smirking at each other.

Harry froze as his mind flashed through all the times in his short life he had been called a freak. His green eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tightened.

Dudley continued, “What are you here for, freak? No one wants you here.”

Harry kept his mouth shut. Gone were the traces of kindness in his cousin’s face that he vaguely remembered. In its place were the beady, pig-like eyes of Vernon Dursley, the sarcastic smirk of Petunia Dursley, and the absolute haughtiness that was exactly on brand for Harry’s aunt and uncle.

“Well? What are you here for?” Dudley repeated, shifting his feet like a bull ready to charge.

Harry shrugged. “I thought I didn't get to speak?” He replied. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw his godmother perking her ears up, a look of inquisitiveness dominating her feline face.

“W-Well,” Dudley sputtered, then menacingly looked at his friends as if daring them to laugh at Harry’s remark. “Go away. Freaks aren’t welcome here.”

“This is a public park.”

“Only for non-freaks. Go away. You’re spreading your freakishness,” Dudley retorted. 

His rounded face was turning an alarming shade of red. As the silence dragged on, Dudley’s brows slowly knit together in agitation.

Harry frowned at his cousin. On the one hand, the young wizard was enjoying himself on the swing. It was just the start of summer, and the wind was incredibly pleasant. On the other, Lady Spinella and Mimi told him that an argument with someone is almost never worth the effort, and Harry already had the impression that this was leading to a pointless debacle. Sighing, he shrugged again, turning and starting towards the bench where his godmother waited.

“Oi, where do you think you’re go--ugh!”

Magic crackled in the air, the smell of sulfur filling up Harry’s nose. A dull  _ thud  _ sounded behind him then and, when he turned, his cousin was flat on his back in front of him. Dudley’s friends started to shout then, calling Harry a freak while helping their leader back up to his feet. Dudley was staring at him as he shoved away his gang’s helping hands, wide-eyed.

“Freak!” the blond-haired boy shouted before running away with his friends, leaving a cloud of sand in their wake.

Harry stood there, dumbfounded, watching as his cousin disappeared from his view. So much had changed, it seemed. That wasn’t the Dudley he grew up with, who shared treats and toys with him. It  _ had  _ been two years since he saw him, after all, and Harry knew his Aunt and Uncle weren’t the best examples of acceptance.

Harry snorted slightly to himself.  _ More like the ideal examples of close-minded bigotry. _

“Let’s go home, dear,” Mimi said then, breaking his reverie. There wasn’t a tail in sight--the witch had already turned herself back. “You did well.”

“That was accidental magic, wasn’t it?” Harry asked quietly, unmoving.

His godmother hummed before answering. “It was. Your magic was trying to protect you.”

“It also makes me a freak.”

Sighing, Mimi kneeled in front of her godson, taking the boy’s hands in hers. “Then it makes all witches and wizards freaks,” She said, eyes connecting to Harry’s. “It makes me, Lady Spinella, Healer Shafiq, Madam Longbottom, Neville--”

Harry started to smile as his godmother went on, listing everyone he ever met over the years.

“And  _ especially  _ Mr. Cuppy,” Mimi ended, giving him a wink, “We’re all freaks, Harry, if being a witch or a wizard means being a freak. But I think you are well aware that the word ‘freak’ starts to become meaningless when applied to a whole community, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Mimi,” Harry replied. 

His godmother always seemed to know what to say to make him feel better.

“Now come along,” The witch stood, dusting off the sand from her tartan robes. “We have supper waiting for us. Knicks would be disappointed if we were late, and you know how he gets when he’s disappointed.”

At that, Harry grabbed his godmother’s hand once more. And, if he was being honest, he felt somewhat happy to feel the dizzying waves of apparition that day.

* * *

Harry was running frantically.

He could not see in front of him. The corridor he walked and played in every day was shrouded with such darkness that he might as well have been blind. He stuck close to the wall, hoping that he remembered enough of his childhood home to know where to go. His fast footsteps and ragged breathing were the only sounds that he could hear, all other sounds seemingly absorbed by the surrounding blackness.

Suddenly, he felt a rush of wind to his left--an opening--signaling that he had reached the corridor leading to the library. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned, slowing down.

Harry was almost there. He could feel it. He just had to-.

“Time’s up, Harry!” His godmother’s disembodied voice boomed, and Harry groaned at the sound. The corridor started to slowly fill with warm afternoon light again as the boy wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I was  _ almost _ there, Mimi!” Harry called out. He pouted as his godmother appeared in front of him, an amused smile and a cocked eyebrow gracing her face.

“Alas, child, you were not fast enough!” the witch responded with a slight chuckle. “Now hurry up and get cleaned. Our guest is arriving soon.”

Harry gave a soft  _ hmp!  _ as he stomped away, heading toward his room. He was the one who suggested the game to his godmother a few months ago. The boy wanted to see if he knew the estate well enough that he could be dropped anywhere and find his way to a certain location in the dark. 

He had not yet won the game in the five times they played, however, always running out of time just short of his destination. It was beyond irritating. The young wizard had complained that the locations were too far, but even  _ he  _ knew that that wasn’t the case.

After cleaning himself up, he marched to the sitting room, consciously smoothing down his robes as he reached the door. He knocked twice and, at his godmother’s voice, turned the oddly ornate brass knob and went in.

Harry often wondered why the rooms in the manor were massive -- or, indeed, if the manor itself was simply entirely too large to be practical at all. But then again, he did suppose that the fifteen elves who lived with them needed their own rooms. And it wasn’t like he was complaining about the ample amount of space to play, explore, or adventure as needed either.

But the enormity of the sitting room did make it a bit of challenge to see where his godmother was. And it didn’t help that there were so many  _ things  _ in the room: statuettes, tapestries, and a disproportionate amount of vases. He paused at the door frame, scanning the room, before finally catching view of Mimi’s tartan witch hat.

“Hello,” Harry said to his godmother’s guest as he sat down. 

The guest was a young man who couldn’t be a day over twenty. The visitor had a pale face, framed by the reddest head of hair Harry had ever seen. He looked at Harry with kind, light blue eyes, but for all the kindness there, those eyes seemed quite solemn and distant.

“Hi Harry. My name’s Bill Weasley.”

Calling on his four years of Wizarding manner classes, Harry straightened his shoulders and held out his right hand toward the elder wizard.

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Weasley, my name is Harry Potter,” Harry introduced himself in a much more formal tone than usual, but he did want to make a good impression. He was surprised then, when he heard the red-haired man chuckle lightly.

“Please, call me Bill. I’m hardly the type of wizard to receive such formality, Harry,” Bill replied after giving the younger wizard a warm smile. “Best save that for Hogwarts, really, or whichever school you end up at.”

“We’re aiming for Hogwarts,” Minerva said, amusement high and clear in her voice.

Bill grinned, mischief dancing in his deep green eyes. “But of course, Professor.”

The next few minutes were spent on discussions about what Bill Weasley had been up to in the two years since he had finished school. All Harry had known about him beforehand was that he was his godmother’s student, which in itself was interesting enough, but Harry almost jumped out of his seat when he learned that Bill was a curse-breaker. The young wizard had learned about them in Pre School, when Lady Spinella had asked Ministry officials to talk about their jobs. Harry had told Mimi that he wanted to be one someday -- or maybe an auror. There was so much adventure to be had.

“We finally removed the spell in the blasted artifact, of course,” Bill said, finishing his story about a shift that almost went horribly wrong. “But I almost strangled Davies, commanding officer or not.”

Minerva frowned before replying, “Seems that Gringotts is getting lax in whom they put in charge.”

“Indeed. The goblins don’t care much, however. They just want the artifacts. But I do feel like we should have  _ some  _ type of leadership that doesn’t get us killed.”

“Which is why you’re here, I assume?” The witch replied, eyes unnervingly steady as she took a sip of her tea.

Harry watched as Bill’s cheeks reddened to a shade that matched his hair. Adjusting his robes, the young man swallowed, and squared his shoulders before giving his former professor a tight nod. 

“I am here to ask for a letter of recommendation from you. I am applying to head my own team.” 

Bill took a fortifying sip of his tea then, waiting for the witch to respond. But Minerva simply raised a brow, appraising her student, and the large room filled with a heavy silence. Harry shifted in his seat, waiting for his godmother to speak. Bill’s fingers started to twitch nervously around his teacup. Setting down the cup the red head began to twist the thick silver ring that sat on his right pinky finger. Harry wondered if the ring held some sort of significance to the budding curse breaker -- he didn’t seem the type for rings like that.

It took a few more moments for Harry to realize that she was giving him the  _ look _ . The one that always seemed to bore into Harry’s soul. It was the  _ look  _ that rivaled the ability of a minister to drag the worst confessions out of a person running from the authorities. His godmother often gave him that  _ look _ , and he always had to stutter out a response if the conversation was to go anywhere.

Apparently she also used it on her students. And grown men, for that matter.

“After two years of working there, I think I am competent enough for it,” Bill started at last, still spinning his ring, “I’ve been leading the team more than Davies has, for that matter.”

“Are you quite sure, William?” Minerva asked, quietly.

“Yes, quite.” With a rueful, self-deprecating grin the redhead continued, “I have grown quite a lot since the Cursed Vaults debacle of my sixth year.”

The glib reply earned a  _ hmp  _ of amusement from the witch, who also shook her head in nostalgia. But Harry was intrigued.

Sitting up straighter at the thought of adventure, Harry questioned, “the Cursed Vaults?”

Mimi looked at her godson with narrowed eyes, though a flicker of delight danced in her eyes. “A story for another time, dear boy.”

“I’ll definitely tell you about it next time, Harry,” Bill winked, finally seeming to notice his unconscious fidgeting, and tucking his right hand deep into his pocket.

Harry gave an indignant pout, but decided to let it drop for now, busily wracking his brain for anything about the Cursed Vaults. His godmother had told him all about Hogwarts, but there was nary a mention of any vaults or whether they were cursed. Indeed, they were mostly stories about a huge Quidditch pitch, and how Mimi used to crush Slytherin House as a Gryffindor Chaser -- until she got cursed before her final match, that is. The witch also talked about the Black Lake and its infamous giant squid, of the Shrieking Shack, and of the cottage she has in Hogsmeade.

But no, Harry never heard of the so-called Cursed Vaults.

Harry tuned back into the conversation when he realized both his godmum and Bill were moving back toward the Floo.

As he stood to follow, he heard Mimi ask the redhead in a quiet voice if he had come across soul magic during his training in Egypt. Bill’s response was equally hushed, as if it were taboo to even discuss such things.

“Aye, nasty pieces of work, those artifacts. Why do you ask?”

Minerva nodded like she knew first-hand how terrible they could be. “I have recently come across mention of such things in my Transfiguration readings.” Seeming suddenly flustered, Minerva interrupted herself, “but that’s a conversation for another day. I’ll send along your Letter to Gringotts by Wednesday.”

With a happy smile, Bill grabbed a small handful of Floo Powder.

“I can’t thank you enough professor. I’ll ask my superiors about their experiences with Soul Magic,” Bill said with a sly smile, before turning toward Harry and raising his voice. “It was great to meet you Harry, we’ll catch up next time I’m around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter phase one of The Plot.
> 
> The flowers used in the Samhain ritual have meaning:  
> Primrose = I can't live without you  
> Amaryllis = Pride  
> Aloe = Greif, sorrow  
> Red Camellia = You're a flame in my heart  
> Geranium = Happiness  
> Hydrangea = Thank you for understanding (me)
> 
> Also, I felt that Harry would need the closure he would get by talking to Dudley, as Dudley hadn't yet learned to hate Harry when they were last together. It's sort of my headcanon that in the time that Harry has been gone from the Dursley household, both Petunia and Vernon would bad-mouth Harry for 'leaving them high and dry' so to speak. 
> 
> Also, hellllo Bill Weasley, bisexual, and one of my favorite Weasleys.


	5. Gringotts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fought me every step of the way, but I think it turned out more or less alright. Feel free to drop me a comment if anything is confusing.
> 
> Thank you so much for the continued love for this story. I appreciate it more than I can express <3
> 
> P.S. My Latin is courtesy of Google Translate, so if it's incorrect please let me know!
> 
> P.P.S. Points to whoever catches the reference made in this chapter.

It was an average summer morning for young Harry Potter -- well, perhaps not  _ entirely _ average, as the dark haired wizard was currently whooping with joy while cutting loop-de-loops in the early morning sunshine on his new Cleansweep 800. While the broom was not the newest on the market, Harry was beyond satisfied. It had taken no less than Outstandings on all his practice B.A.Ts. to convince Mimi that he was mature enough for more than a training broom that only went two meters off the ground.

Harry’s sigh was lost in the wind as he pulled out of the last loop and passed over the greenhouse and toward the clear lake that sparkled like a diamond in the early morning sun. The Basic Aptitude Tests were something that all young witches and wizards were encouraged to take to get into one of the three Magical schools in Britain. They were not difficult so much as they were tedious, but Harry had spent the past year studying for them. After all, a deal had been struck between the dark haired wizard and his academically strict godmother. Harry would work hard to pass his exams, and in return Mimi would allow him to have something better than a basic training broom.

And by Merlin, had it paid off.

The wizard spotted his godmum standing in the center of the open field to his right, and grinned mischievously before taking off toward her like he was shot from a cannon, unable to contain his shout of laughter at the sheer speed.

Minerva stood with her arms crossed and watched her godson streak toward her, amused, and utterly unsurprised that the boy took to the air like a bowtruckle takes to a Wiggentree. The witch just watched as the wind rumpled boy slid off his broom before it even stopped, jogging a few steps to slow himself before stopping directly in front of her.

“I have been asked to fetch you for breakfast. It seems you have frightened Knicks and young Cuppy with your manic flying.”

Harry ducked his head as he felt his cheeks heat at the mild reprimand, “I apologize Mimi, it’s just -”

“Quite exhilarating, I understand.” Minerva paused to send a slightly conspiratorial grin in the green eyed boy’s direction. “It is not me to whom you should apologize.”

“I have some Honey Bees in my room, I’ll apologize to Knicks and Mr. Cuppy with those.”

The response pulled a laugh from the elder Witch, as she took Harry’s proffered arm, and led the way to the extravagant breakfast the elves had laid out for the wizard’s tenth birthday.

The breakfast spread was truly a sight to behold. The elves had positively outdone themselves this year, making all of Harry’s favorite breakfast foods, from the rashers of maple bacon piled on the platter to the hid left, to the full toast rack, filled with perfectly golden brown slices, sitting next to the jars of elf-made clotted cream, and orange marmalade. The messy hired wizard’s plate had practically disappeared under a veritable mountain of eggy bread slathered in yet more dark amber syrup. Harry made a mental note to visit Ginger at the Estate kitchen to thank her for such an amazing breakfast feast.

Distracted by the delicious decadence that was breakfast, it wasn’t until Harry was almost entirely  _ too  _ stuffed to move to notice the rather official-looking letter placed next to his glass of chilled pumpkin juice. Taking a second to wipe syrup off of his lips, he looked pointedly at his godmother.

“Is this for me, Mimi?” He asked. As he had only ever received letters from Neville and Bill, and the envelopes were never quite as crisp and white and sealed with such an air of formality.

From across the table, Minerva nodded slightly, giving him a tight smile before replying. “It is, Harry dear. From Gringotts.”

With furrowed brows, Harry gingerly picked the letter up. Bill had often told him about Gringotts and the goblins who worked there, they always seemed a little scary to the young wizard, despite Bill’s assurances otherwise. And so he cautiously opened the envelope, feeling for all the world like a curse-breaker himself.

Once open, Harry slowly read the letter. As his green eyes scanned the paper, his jaw started to slacken, shock and confusion growing on his young face. In a fancy script, the letter said:

_ Dear Mr. Harry James Potter, _

_ We congratulate you for successfully reaching the tenth year of life. _

_ The Gringotts Wizarding Bank requests your presence at our main branch at Diagon Alley, London, England, to discuss the financial standing of the Potter Estate. This is in accordance with Goblin Edict No. 4782, subsection 80, which therein states that upon achieving the first decade of their life, all magical beings must hereby be informed of any and all magical assets, investments, and equities of which they are currently in rightful possession. _

_ Upon entry to the bank, request to meet with Potter Accounts Manager, Primus Hordak. We eagerly anticipate your arrival within the coming days. _

_ Signed, _

_ Broik _

_ Senior Underling _

_ Gringotts Wizarding Bank, London _

“I don’t understand,” the young wizard began, jaw still slightly slack, “Potter Estate? Assets? A meeting?” The dark haired boy looked toward his godmum with wide questioning eyes.

Minerva sighed, putting down her half-eaten ginger newt. She considered Harry carefully for a moment, ruefully thinking that while she had anticipated the goblins’ summons, she never did figure out how to approach this particular conversation with her godson. 

“Harry do you remember when you studied the founding families of Britain?”

The green eyed boy nodded slowly, thinking about the months Lady Spinella had spent talking about the founding families of Magical Britain that had created the structure of their Government today. His mind quickly went through the names that every magical child was required to learn: from the Abbotts to the Greengrasses and the Longbottoms, to the Malfoys and finally to the Potters. 

Now that he thought about it, he recalled the drama that surrounded the ancient Potter family. How some of the other founding families hadn’t wanted to include them in the list simply for the fact the surname Potter was so common. It was because of this exact commonality that Harry had never realized that his parents -- his family were, in fact,  _ the _ Potters of old.

With wide eyes, the ten year old boy looked to the auburn haired witch for confirmation.

“You mean I’m part of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter?”

A gentle smile creased the soft wrinkles around Minerva’s mouth as she nodded. “And as such, you have many family properties and vaults that the Potter Accounts Manager at Gringotts has been holding for you until you were of the appropriate age to take them over yourself.”

If you asked her, Minerva would tell you that she thought ten years old was still  _ much  _ too young to even be remotely handling family finances. But even she had to admit the benefits that came with claiming the heir ring her godson would surely receive far outweighed the potentials for disaster. Especially for someone like her Harry, who was wanted by many powerful people for various nefarious reasons.

The Transfiguration Master took a fortifying sip of her Lady Grey, thinking about one person in particular who would want to use, and shape, her boy to meet his own ends. She would simply have to help guide Harry and assist him in any way she could, with whatever he may need. 

Minerva was pulled from her reverie by the excited shifting of the young boy across from her.

“Mimi, I know we have a lot planned for today, but do you think there’s time for us to stop by Gringotts?”

The Scottish witch huffed a small laugh, the excitement of the young was something that would always warm her heart. 

“How would you like it if we went after we’ve finished breakfast?”

Harry’s excitement morphed from restless shifting to soft bouncing in his chair.

“Can we really? Oh thank you, Mimi! You’re the best.”

* * *

Harry couldn’t remember that last time he had been to Diagon Alley. Having grown up in the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, it was a rare occasion indeed that the young boy had a chance to see London’s foremost magical shopping district. As such, the young wizard was excited to be able to explore more -- and finally see the famous wizarding bank that Bill had talked about so much in their infrequent letters. Today was the first time he would be Flooing to the Alley via the Leaky Cauldron as well. Actually, this would be his longest Floo trip to date.

The young Potter’s excitement was nearly palpable as he dropped the powder at his feet in the fireplace at Urquart Estate, calling out his destination in a clear, strong voice as he was told. Mimi had told him some truly worrisome stories about Flooing gone wrong. His godmother herself had experienced the results of speaking unclearly when using Floo powder, apparently she had ended up in some shady shop in the infamous Knockturn Alley.

Harry stumbled out of the connecting Floo and glanced around at the dimly lit pub. The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t exactly living up at all to his expectations. He had thought that since the place was so central to Diagon Alley, it would be rather grandiose, as many wizarding establishments tended to be. The boy brushed soot from his day robes, and took a tentative step aside to allow room for his godmother to exit behind him as he took in the main tavern area of the famous pub.

The tavern was much darker than Harry would have thought it would be, with worn, dark wooden tables and grungy looking white walls. The place looked well worn, sure, but inviting -- not so much. If anything, there was a pressing sensation of being run down and a tired feeling practically emanating from the place.

Glancing around he noticed very few patrons occupying the space, much less than he would have assumed, it was the unofficial entrance to the Alley after all.

_Although_ he rationalized, _it is_ _that weird lull of time that existed between breakfast and lunch_.

There was an old hunched witch -- that could only be a hag Harry decided, wearing layers of faded black rags sitting at the bar along the left wall with a steaming, oddly luminous, green drink in front of her. A group of elderly wizards who were sharing a meal, and no doubt gossiping in the way that only elderly men could, were seated at the table far to the right side of the room near the entrance to what Harry knew was muggle London. Lastly, there was the barkeep himself standing behind the bar, polishing a glass with an unfortunately dirty looking rag. 

_ The barkeep might be the most welcoming feature of the whole place _ , Harry thought. In fact, the elderly man looked a bit like how Harry had imagined the main character of one of his favorite muggle adventure books might look. Yes, the man looked almost exactly like Bilbo Baggins, only he was much taller than Hobbits were said to be.

The Floo flared to life behind him, pulling him from his musings. Mimi stepped out of the fireplace with a deft flick of her wand to banish soot from her green linen summer robes. Harry felt a brush of the elder witch’s magic sweep over his own robes, removing any soot he may have missed with his hands. Taking two quick steps closer to his godmother, the young boy offered his arm. The movement was near instinctual now, after nearly four years of Wizarding Etiquette classes. Harry let Mimi lead him further into the room for a quick greeting with the rosy-cheeked barkeep before the pair walked through a gloomy doorway to the left of the bar.

They were soon faced with a brick wall at the back of a small courtyard that seemed to Harry to be more of an outdoor extension of the hallway. The wall itself was utterly unremarkable, except for a small hum of magic that could only be felt if you really focused. Harry studied the magical barrier intently, curious as to what they would have to do to access the Alley.

_ Maybe there’s a password,  _ he thought to himself as he watched Mimi pull out her wand and tap the bricks in a certain order, before sliding her wand back up her sleeve.

Minerva glanced down at Harry as the bricks came to life, moving and twisting with a low grinding sound of stone moving against stone to form an archway.

“Is there a spell we need to memorize to enter?” Harry asked, voice quiet with reverence.

“It’s unnecessary to use a wand to access the Alley from here,” Minerva replied, amusement creeping into her voice, “All you need is an intent to enter, and to be sure you touch the correct bricks.”

A small nod was Harry’s only response. Acts of magic were certainly not uncommon in their household -- nor in his school -- but it seemed that every day he got to witness some new and fantastical aspect of magic that he had never before considered. There was always something new to learn, and some different way to use the magic that he did know. 

Suddenly the young Potter felt like he would never truly know all there was about magic.

Harry tried not to gawk as the Alley opened in front of him like a blooming flower. The sounds of witches and wizards milling about flooding his ears. Though despite the cacophony, Diagon Alley was filled only with the usual mid-summer crowd and the early lunch rush, which was by no means anywhere as busy as the week after the Hogwarts letters were sent out. With a soft tug on his arm, Harry was led through the crowds down the curving main alleyway toward the leaning white marble building that was Gringotts.

The bank was situated at a crossroads of sorts; Diagon Alley proper continued straight past, before curving toward the right and out of sight. Branching off to the left of the Alley was a narrow, dark, opening that looked oddly shadowed and incredibly uninviting, a plaque at the entrance declaring it to be Knockturn Alley. Directly across from the Knockturn Alley entrance was another path, almost as wide as Diagon Alley itself. It was well lit and manicured, seemingly filled with cafes, restaurants, and small boutiques of various kinds. In short it was the exact opposite of Knockturn Alley. The plaque at the corner dubbed it to be Leisure Alley.

All of Harry’s attention, however, was snared by the Gringotts itself. The white marble structure was fascinating with its three stories and the way it leaned, undoubtedly kept standing with magic. The boy was curious to know if the magic was woven within the stones of the building itself, or if wards were responsible for keeping the bank upright.

_ Can wards even be used that way?  _ It was something that he would have to ask Bill about in his next letter.

Minerva led them up a handful of stairs and through an archway bracketed by two goblin guards clad in polished bronze armor -- and armed with spears -- before coming to a pair of grandiose silver doors, flanked by two more goblin guards, these two armed with swords at their hip and axes at their back. Harry knew that goblins were a warrior race, but to see the armor and weapons in person was, admittedly, a little intimidating.

Walking through the doors, the young wizard just caught the inscription wrought into the doors themselves. He knew from his classes that the words were both a threat and a warning to any who wished to take what wasn’t theirs from the building.

_ Enter, stranger, but take heed _

_ Of what awaits the sin of greed _

_ For those who take, but do not earn, _

_ Must pay most dearly in their turn. _

_ So if you seek beneath our floors _

_ A treasure that was never yours, _

_ Thief, you have been warned, beware _

_ Of finding more than treasure there. _

From what he knew of goblin’s, and the warning carved into the entrance of what was their territory, Harry couldn’t help but wonder what could possibly motivate someone to attempt to steal from some of the magical world’s most dangerous warriors.

Squaring his shoulders and taking a deep, steadying breath, Harry took the lead, and moved toward an open teller on the left side of the hall. He knew it was important while he was in the bank to act with authority, Mimi had warned him beforehand that goblins took a dim view on outright ignorance. Arriving at the teller’s desk the young wizard sighed inwardly at how he still couldn’t quite see over the counter. Hopefully he’d have another growth spurt soon. He was ten now, after all.

“Good morning, I am here to meet with Primus Hordak, the Potter Accounts Manager.” The black haired boy had to bite back the instinctual ‘please’ that he almost added at the end of his statement. 

_ Rule one when dealing with goblins _ , he thought, remembering Lady Spinella’s warnings from class _ , was to never say please; they view it as a sign of weakness and uncertainty. _

The goblin’s chair creaked as he leaned forward slowly, gripping the edge of the counter with long, knobby fingers to peer at the Potter heir. They were an old thing, Harry decided, as all he knew of goblins filtering through his mind. It wasn’t the tufts of white hair that aged the goblin, or the length of their beard, nor was it all the wrinkles. Instead, it was the simple fact that they were sitting. It was a known fact that goblins despised showing any sort of weaknesses to outsiders. Putting themselves in a vulnerable position, such as sitting, would be something that they tried to avoid at all costs. Unless, of course, the goblin in question was old enough to  _ need  _ to be seated.

_ That could also explain why the chair, and counter, itself was so high. To give them an advantage even when so disadvantaged. _

Harry was pulled from his musings when the goblin thrust a small bronze bowl, and a wickedly sharp stiletto dagger toward him with those long, spindly fingers, along with gruff instructions for a few drops of blood. The boy was beyond thankful Mimi had explained this procedure before they left home this morning. 

Before the goblins would work with someone, Harry had learned, they must be presented with a key, or blood to confirm the identity of the person. The dark haired boy could only assume that the old goblin accurately guessed that he, being only ten, would not yet have his vault key.

Harry fought the faint tremors of nerves threatening to make his hands shake as he gripped the sharp silver blade. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. This wasn’t the first time he needed to give blood for a ritual after all; memories of Samhain and the rituals involved came to mind. But there was something about the sharp gaze of the suit-clad teller goblin that made his shoulders tighten in apprehension. 

With another fortifying breath, Harry pricked the pad of this thumb, ignoring the sharp sting and focusing instead on making sure that the bottom of the bowl was sufficiently covered. He felt a small nudge from his godmother when he had finished, and a flash of dark green entered his vision as he turned, accepting her tartan handkerchief. 

He gingerly wiped the welling blood from the pad of his thumb. Moving to tuck the kerchief into his pocket, Harry caught the pointed look the Scottish witch sent the knife. Face heating in embarrassment, the young wizard gently placed the bronze bowl back on the teller’s counter before wiping down the blade and placing it delicately next to the bowl.

With a grumble of satisfaction, the goblin banished the dagger, grabbed an odd looking silver edged parchment, and picked up the small bowl. He swirled the blood around the inside of the bowl clockwise three times before pouring it onto the center of the parchment. A soft golden glow lit the goblin's face, and with a contented nod, the goblin reached under his desk and rang an unseen bell, before turning toward the witch at Harry’s side.

“You will not be allowed back with the wizard until he has claimed his heir ring,” the goblin grumbled in a much lower voice than Harry was expecting from something so small.

The gruff statement was met with a nod of understanding from Mimi.

His godmother cleared her throat. “I was hoping you would know if a curse breaker by the name of William Weasley was here,” she said, voice much more authoritative than anything he could hope to achieve.

Harry’s ears perked up at the inquiry --  _ Bill was here? _ Last he knew, Bill was busy with a particularly complicated case in Albania. Or was it Turkey? But before Harry could prod his godmother, the appearance of a second goblin, this one seemingly much younger and wearing full armor with a mace at their belt, banished all thoughts of his friend.

“Follow me, Mr. Potter,” The second goblin said, their voice higher than the other goblin’s. The new goblin didn’t wait for a reply as they turned and brusquely made their way between the teller’s desks and toward the doorway at the far end of the room.

Harry glanced back toward his godmum, unsure of where to find her after he was finished.

Minerva patted his back in a soft nudge. “Go on darling, I’ll be here when you get back,” she said, ever encouraging. Harry grinned, realizing he shouldn’t have worried. 

As he turned to follow the goblin that was now nearly to the door, he noticed yet another goblin, wearing the similar armor, but with a war hammer strapped to their back, heading towards his godmother. He wondered what she was up to as he rushed as fast as his legs would carry him without running after the mace wielding goblin. 

_ Rule two when interacting with the goblin nation: never run. _ Running will, more often than not, be viewed as an attack.

* * *

Harry was deposited in what appeared to be a large office with a veritable armory displayed on three of the four white marble walls, and told to wait. Walking forward slowly, he glanced around, taking in all the impressive -- intimidating -- weapons before making his way toward the large desk on the far end of the cavernous room. In front of the desk were two chairs that looked  _ just _ uncomfortable enough that they were obviously meant for visitors. Harry sat to wait, studying the portrait that dominated the wall behind the desk. It seemed to be one of the great goblin wars, but he wasn’t quite sure which. The whole office, for that was what it undoubtedly was, oozed cool efficiency and intimidation.

So distracted by the slowly moving battle woven into the truly immense magical tapestry, Harry didn’t notice the door to the right of the masterpiece until it abruptly swung open. He chastised himself for not being alert to his surroundings as he quickly stood to greet Primus Hordak. 

_ Rule three of good goblin relations _ , Harry thought,  _ never greet them sitting down; it is seen as an insult to their honor. _

The goblin gave him a sharp, wicked looking, smile as they reached their desk.

“Mr. Potter, how expeditious to see you so soon. Have a seat and we shall get started,” the goblin said, their voice reminding Harry of the crunching of gravel. 

Harry made sure to sit only after Hordak had seated themself. The goblin’s wicked smile grew larger at that. “It is a rare thing to see one as young as you with such manners.” Hordak noted as the young wizard across from them sat lightly in one of the two wooden chairs.

That green eyed boy fought his own grin as he quoted Mimi, “Respect for others leads to greater respect for oneself, after all.”

“Indeed,” the goblin flashed their shark-like teeth. “The reason we have called you here is to discuss the state of the Potter accounts, as well as allow you the chance to procure your heir ring. Before all of that though, an inheritance test is needed.”

Harry nodded in response. The inheritance test, from what his godmother had told him, was needed since it was quite common for heirs to inherit more than their titled assets. The bloodlines of the magical families in Britain were confusing at the best of times, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure how the goblins kept it all straight all the time.

With a small nod to the parchment laid out to Harry’s right, and the dagger placed next to it, Hordak said, “Whenever you are ready, Mr. Potter.” 

Pulling the thick yellowed parchment closer to himself, Harry lifted the blade and pricked his thumb for the second time this morning, allowing exactly five droplets to fall onto the aged surface. Absentmindedly he wiped the blade clean, then gently wrapped his thumb, as the blood on the parchment coalesced into the center and sank into the document. The sting wasn’t as bad as earlier, but he sent a small, mental apology to his abused thumb just in case.

Words started to appear on the page then, written in Harry’s own blood.

_ Harry James Potter 31/07/1980 - _

_ Familial Bonds: _

_ James Charlus Potter 27/03/1960 - 31/10/1981  _

_ Lily Juniper Potter (nee Evans) 30/01/1960 - 31/10/1981  _

_ Sirius Orion Black 03/11/1959 -  _

_ Bond initiated: 31/08/1980 _

_ Minerva Ygraine McGonagall 04/10/1934 -  _

_ Bond initiated: 31/08/1980 _

_ Vaults: _

_ Potter Family Vault No. 707 _

_ Holdings: 154,673 galleons, 16 sickles, 387 knuts _

_ Harry J. Potter Inheritance Vault No. 687 _

_ Holdings: 10,561 galleons, 3 sickles, 490 knuts _

_ Peverell Family Vault No. 856 _

_ Holdings: 7,947 galleons, 10 sickles, 294 knuts _

_ Gryffindor Family Vault No. 898 _

_ Holdings: 5,583 galleons, 7 sickles, 125 knuts _

_ Black Inheritance Vault No. 700 _

_ Holdings: 23,674 galleons, 11 sickles, 35 knuts _

_ Heir Apparent: _

_ The Noble and Ancient House of Potter (main branch) _

_ The Most Noble and Ancient House of Peverell (paternal branch) _

_ The Noble and Ancient House of Gryffindor (cadet branch) _

_ The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black (familial bond) _

Harry could only stare at the names of all the Houses, trying to school his face in front of the goblin in spite of his utter surprise. His mind raced and whirled. He knew he was  _ part _ of House Potter from the letter, but he didn’t know that he was the  _ heir  _ of the House. 

Harry had heard the rumor that the ancient Potters were descended from the Peverells, and now that rumor was staring back at him. And what about the House of Gryffindor? Did it mean he was related to  _ Hogwarts’ Gryffindor _ ? And the Blacks? Didn’t Mimi talk with Neville’s grandmother about a Black being imprisoned in Azkaban when they thought the boys were playing?

He could feel the headache starting to build behind his left eye. The words themselves were simple enough, written in a neat script, but he didn’t understand any of it. He should have paid more attention to Lady Spinella when they were talking about family trees and ancient houses of magical Britain -- but it was all so boring at the time. 

Clearly he would need to talk to his godmother about this later.

“Everything appears to be in order. Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Potter?” Primus Hordak asked as the silence continued to stretch on.

Sitting back in his chair, Harry absently balled his borrowed handkerchief in his hand as he shook his head, trying not to let any of his confusion show in his expression. He felt -- knew, _ probably _ \-- that he had stumbled upon secrets with this inheritance test. But he just wasn’t sure  _ how _ . It was a struggle not to rub at his left brow in agitation.

“If that is the case.” Hordak cut themself off as they reached for the three boxes that had appeared in front of them with the results of the test. “These are the Scion rings that could belong to you. Please note, at this acceptance of the first heir ring, you will henceforth be formally referred to as the Heir Potter.”

The box itself was made from a deeply lacquered red wood, and engraved with the Potter Family crest of two rearing stags bracketing a shield engraved with a ‘P’, under which were the words, ‘ _ In Finem Ultimum Inimicus Vinci Est Mors’.  _

_ ‘In the end the last enemy to be conquered is Death,’ _ Harry translated, a sense of familiarity tugging at the edge of his conscience at the words. With a small shake of his head, the young Potter reached for the box, trying to still the shaking in his hands as he pulled out the ring that lay nestled on the red velvet within.

With a deep breath Harry slid the ring onto the last finger of his dominant hand. It felt solid and heavy and surprisingly warm. A weird mix of his godmother’s and Lady Spinella’s voice whirled in his mind as he tried to remember what the rings were for in the first place. 

_ Heir rings were saturated with a family’s magic _ , the voices echoed almost painfully,  _ and if you were the magical heir to the house and judged fit to lead the family, the magic would accept you _ .

He’s seen one before, he thinks -- Bill always fidgets with an ornate ring on his own right pinky finger, whenever he’s nervous.

Harry felt the magic within the ring brush against his own with curiosity, before sinking into him, leaving behind a feeling of warm acceptance and the smell of wet leaves in autumn. With a muted flash, the ring resized itself to fit his finger perfectly. 

Harry couldn’t help his sigh of relief; his family’s magic had accepted him. It was an odd thing to worry about, he knew, but he only just learned that he was the heir a few moments ago, and it wasn’t like he was raised by his parents.

Across from him, Primus Hordak’s eyes sparkled with interest, and Harry could’ve sworn he heard a low hum of approval from the goblin.

Steeling himself, he picked up the ring from the second box, the gold and red gilding marking it unmistakably as belonging to House Gryffindor. The crest on the thick golden ring was that of a rearing lion. It was one thing Harry never had understood; why, with a name like Gryffindor, they had chosen a lion for their crest, and not a griffin. The young boy could just make out the engraved motto situated beneath a truly massive ruby: ‘ _ Ne Vile Velis’.  _

‘ _ Wishing nothing base’, not what I expected.  _ Harry considered as he slid the ring onto the same finger as the first. It was Neville that explained to Harry, one weekend after a lesson with his grandmother -- that the magic within the rings was clever, in that you could wear as many rings on the same finger as needed. You only had to will one ring to be shown over the others. At least, that’s what Augusta Longbottom told him anyway.

_ It made sense _ , he supposed,  _ you only have ten fingers after all, and you wouldn’t want to cover all your fingers with heir or lordship rings, that would just get in the way of adventures.  _

As the Gryffindor ring accepted him, Harry had a sense of the magic that lived within -- that of a warm fire, light, and the tangy scent of metal.  
“Here is the last box, Heir Potter,” Primus Hordak said, with another flash of their shark-like teeth, as they pushed the last box further in front of him. Harry could only nod in response, suddenly feeling very unsure of himself.

The last ring was quite obviously the Black family ring, which was in a vastly different box than the other two. This box was intricately wrought silver depicting what looked to be the constellations in the night sky. Within the box, resting on the darkest black velvet Harry had ever seen, was an equally extravagant ring.

Worked in an almost unnaturally shiny silver, the Black family crest presented itself proudly on the ring. The crest bore three ravens resting under a macabrely ominous grinning skull. Resting within the skull’s mouth was a sparkly black stone, with a large ‘B’ engraved directly onto its face. Beneath the ravens is the family motto:  _ ‘Toujours Pur’. _

Harry stared down at the extravagant heir ring. It was intimidating, if he was being honest with himself, and he couldn’t exactly figure out why. He couldn’t keep his hand from trembling slightly as he reached toward the box. Maybe it was because he wasn’t sure  _ how _ he was the Black heir, or, perhaps, it was that he felt unsure if the magic that lived in the ring would accept him at all.

The essence of the Black family magic was vastly different from the others, though it accepted him all the same.  _ ‘Always Pure’ what does that even mean,  _ Harry thought as he caught the scent of old parchment, blood, and he felt what he could only describe as the cold of a shadow or deep darkness. A sense of slight melancholy and dread filled him, and he couldn’t help remembering how Augusta Longbottom raved about the historical insanity of the Black family, much to his godmother’s chagrin.

With a nod of satisfaction of a task completed, the Accounts Manager began to explain the lack of the fourth ring, “Unfortunately, Heir Potter, the Peverell ring has been lost with time. Though we know the ring still exists, it has not returned to the family vault. As such, you will not, at this time, be able to claim the Peverell Heir ring, and thus, the vaults that go with it.”

Harry nodded numbly, feeling entirely overwhelmed. If he were being honest with himself, he didn’t want to claim House Peverell, though he was curious about the fate of the ring, and how the goblins could know that it wasn’t destroyed.

“Now that the Heirship rings have been claimed, there is the matter of your holdings, investments, and properties.” Hordak gestured to a goblin standing just inside the door holding a stack of files. Harry eyed the oddly silent goblin, wondering just how long they had stood there, and when Primus Hordak summoned them. 

The young wizard didn’t realize he was fidgeting with his newly acquired Potter ring. The unconscious gesture caused Hordak to grin sharply, before slapping the files onto their desk, just to see Harry jump. The goblin had to admit, the boy was handling himself quite well, all things considered. 

“Now, on the matter of your holdings. You are quite a rich young man, Heir Potter, though the wealth is pretty evenly spread.” The goblin’s eyes lit with a manic sort of greed, before they continued. “As set forth by James Potter before his death, you will not be able to remove money from the main Potter vault until you are of the age to claim Lordship of House Potter. This, of course, does not include material items or heirlooms housed within the vault. You will have access to the Inheritance vault in your name for all of your expenses.”

Harry nodded in understanding, not really absorbing any of the information and feeling that budding headache build the longer Hordak spoke.

“There is a requirement upon claiming Lordship of House Potter that the new Lord must replace the full 15,000 galleons back within the Inheritance vault, for the following heir --”

_ 15,000? But the Inheritance vault only has around 10,000 galleons. _

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Harry interrupted before his Accounts Manager could continue. “The full amount is 15,000 galleons, but I currently only have 10,000 galleons in --”

“10,561 galleons, 3 sickles, 490 knuts,” Hordak corrected.

“Yes, thank you, 10,561 galleouns, 3 sickles, and 490 knuts in my vault.” Harry paused, eyebrows raised. “But this is the first I’m hearing about any sort of Inheritance vault. I’ve never taken anything from it.” Harry let all the confusion he was feeling finally flood his voice and expression.

A stony look crossed Hordak’s already terrifying face, their dark eyes glinting like polished obsidian.

“Are you in possession of your vault key, Heir Potter?”

“Am I supposed to be?” Harry questioned.

At his question, a sharp and ominous gong sounded through the room, the goblin from before entered, and Hordak barked toward them in guttural Gobbledegook. The harsh language made the hairs at the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. If he were forced to describe it, he would say it sounded like rock clashing against rock in a rainstorm.

Turning back toward Harry, Hordak continued, “While we wait on that, why don’t we go over your other holdings to see if we can find any other discrepancies.”

With a slow nod, Harry leaned forward in his truly uncomfortable seat, “Yes, let’s.”

The Potter Heir apparently earns substantial money in royalties from potions invented by their ancestors, such as Skele-gro and Pepperup. Harry also holds shares in the Daily Prophet, and, shockingly, stock in a recent Muggle company called Apple, courtesy of his mum, he supposed.

It also seemed the Gryffindor vault was simply sitting there, collecting interest.

And he would only be able to access the Black Inheritance vault until he is of age to inherit the Lordship, where he will then gain access to the Black Family vault. Hordak mentioned some rule about heirs not being allowed access to these vaults for some reason, but the young wizard was so overwhelmed with all the information that had been thrown at him that he couldn’t for the life of him recall the reason why there was such a rule.

They then shift to the topic of properties. Primus Hordak slid a thick green folder toward Harry for him to look over and stood, “I will leave you to peruse your properties while I go see what is taking them so long.”

“Of course.” Harry would hate to be the goblin that was sent to retrieve that particular document. Hordak looked much more murderous than usual as they stalked out the door and into the hallway beyond. For all of their apparent anger however, they shut the door softly behind them. 

_ Goblins are truly terrifying,  _ Harry thought with a shudder.

As the door closed behind the Potter Accounts Manager, Harry finally allowed himself to slouch back into his supremely cramped wooden chair. The dark haired wizard pulled the file into his lap and flipped it open.

The first property in the folder is a cottage in Godric’s Hollow, apparently named Potter Cottage. Mimi had already told Harry about the cottage in a hushed voice one evening after he had asked about his parents.  _ This  _ was where his parents were killed. This was where he had been raised for a majority of his first year of life. Studying the photo of the two story house, Harry felt the back of his eyes burn at the thought of his lost parents. Squeezing his eyes tight to stem the tears that were building, he turned the page.

Next was a truly staggering manor home called Griffin’s Roost. Mimi hadn’t been able to tell him much about the Potter ancestral home, only that with the death of his parents, the exact location of the house was wiped from her mind entirely. It seemed even the goblins didn’t know where the ancestral home was located. What the goblins lacked in knowledge of location, however, they more than made up for in knowledge of the wards that surround the property.

Just as the green eyed wizard was diving into the details of the wards, the door to the office crashed open, and in walked an incredibly threatening looking Primus Hordak.

“It seems, Heir Potter, that your key is in the possession of Albus Dumbledore, who has since accessed your vault numerous times over the years and made off with 4,437 galleons and 3 knuts.”

_ Albus Dumbledore? As in, the headmaster of Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore? Why in Merlin’s name would he have my key? _

“I am going to assume, based on your expression, that you had no knowledge of this.” 

Harry was distinctly aware that wasn’t actually a question.

“No, I did not.”

Hordak finally sat back behind their desk, with an unnerving amount of vindictive glee on their face.

“It is within your rights, Heir Potter, to demand Mr. Dumbledore return the money he has taken from your vault, with interest.”

Harry nodded in understanding, “Would it also be possible to retrieve the key from him?” 

With a snap of Hordak’s long bony fingers, the aforementioned key appeared and with a soft  _ thump  _ landed on the desk between the pair.

“Wow. Now  _ that  _ is efficient.” Harry reached for the key, noting the 687 engraved on the wide, diamond shaped end. He tucked it into his pocket next to the used kerchief, and glanced back at his Accounts Manager. “Is there a fee for getting the stolen galleons back?” Goblins did almost nothing for free, after all.

The grin on Hordak’s face was much more of a baring of teeth, Harry noted.

“For you, Heir Potter, it shall cost nothing, as you are the wronged party. But a 20% fee would be charged to Mr. Dumbldore on every galleon taken. In other words, three and a half sickles, or 99 knuts, for every galleon taken. 25% of which, we would be happy to gift to you as reparations for our oversight.”

“Agreed.” Harry replied, trying not to let out a tired sigh.

“Is there anything else you require today, Heir Potter?” Hordak asked gleefully, seeming ready to ruin Dumbledore’s financial life.

Harry hummed thoughtfully for a moment, the goblin’s question sparking a sense of curiosity in his mind despite the day’s already overwhelming events.

“I would like to visit the main Potter vault.”

“Of course, Vierlogz will take you down.” The Accounts Manager gestured to a young goblin with a broadsword strapped across their back, that had just entered the room. “May your gold flow, and your enemies fear your name.” Hordak stated the formal goblin goodbye.

Harry stood, and offered a short bow, “May our relationship grow gold and ever prosper, and may your enemies always cower in your shadow.”

* * *

The mine cart ride might possibly be the second best experience, aside from flying, in Harry’s young life. It was rather short though, and soon enough they had finally made it to the Potter Family vault, number 707. The goblin, Vierlogz, held a lantern high above their head, and gestured the young wizard toward the vault door immediately after they disembarked the cart.

“Simply press your Heir ring to the indentation just there,” Vierlogz said, as they waved a sharp nailed hand toward the seam of the doors about a meter and a half off the ground.

Stepping forward, Harry did as instructed, and nearly jumped backward in fright at the heavy sounds of the gears and locks within the doors shifting. The doors swung outward then, filling the air with the metallic creak of ancient hinges begrudgingly moving, until Harry saw a soft light shining from within the vault, lighting the boy’s face in a warm golden glow. The green eyed wizard stared in sheer awe at the sight of piles upon piles of coins stacked in neat piles along the left side, stretching so far back, he honestly couldn’t see the back wall of the vault from the entrance. And on the right side were shelves upon shelves of books, jewelry, armor, and other heirlooms of importance to Potters past.

Taking small steps towards the right, the Potter Heir soon found himself standing directly in front of a small round table that held only two slightly yellowed envelopes half hidden beneath an oddly iridescent bundle of cloth. Harry reached out slowly, unsure of what he was and wasn’t allowed to touch in here. He gripped the corner of the envelopes softly, and pulled, wincing when the strange cloth shifted before sliding off the table entirely to puddle on to the floor.

Feeling like he was going to be reprimanded at any moment for getting into something he shouldn’t, Harry quickly bent and picked up the large shimmering cloth. The cloth -- cloak?-- was cool to the touch, and reminded the young Potter distinctly of the feeling of water running through his fingers. As he unfolded the bundle to see it fully, a slip of parchment slid loose from the folds and fluttered to the floor.

Harry reached down to pick up the scrap of parchment, careful not to let the cloth slip from his grasp. The writing on the parchment was sharp and slanted, with splattered ink staining the edges.

_ Prongslet, _

_ Keep this cloak with you always.  _

Then under that, written in smoother, smaller handwriting:

_ Read the letters somewhere safe _

A heartbeat passed. Then two. And then all at once, confusion crashed through Harry so sharply it almost knocked him off his feet. Suddenly the only thing Harry wanted was his godmother. Today had been weird and stressful, his head hurt, and he just wanted to be done with it all.

He shoved the cloak into his left pocket, mentally thanking Merlin, Morgana, and Mimi for the expansion charms cast on the fabric, held the letters tightly to his chest, and exited the vault. The young wizard almost tripped climbing back into the cart, clutching the letters so tightly the edges of the thick envelopes crinkled then cut into his fingers.

* * *

The Transfiguration Professor was led to a small antechamber off the Teller Hall to await the eldest Weasley. The two had sporadically kept in touch after Minerva’s initial questions about soul magic -- the line of inquiry that resulted in young Bill Weasley specializing in the topic in his budding curse breaker career. His most recent letter mentioned a particularly complicated case in Albania which had just finished.

_ He had asked to meet, so whatever happened must’ve been promising, _ the greying witch thought as she waited, wringing her hands to keep herself from pacing.

She could feel it in her bones. Today would be more stressful than she possibly could have prepared for. The old witch just hoped that things with young Harry were going as smoothly as possible. She had planned to go over the Potter finances the following day, as it  _ was _ his birthday and her godson and young Mr. Longbottom had some adventure planned, something involving a potential treehouse.

Minerva fought her smile at the thought.  _ Oh to be young, and full of boundless energy and imagination. _ The witch had already decided to aid the pair, but that did not mean that she would keep them from such a wonderful learning opportunity as building a magical treehouse. It was the treehouse she and her brothers had built as children that had first sparked her love for transfiguration, after all.

The Professor was pulled from her reverie by the sound of footsteps and the unmistakable red hair of a Weasley.

“Professor, I wasn’t expecting to see you here so soon,” Bill said by way of greeting, straightening his Gringotts uniform -- the cobalt blue robes of a curse breaker.

“Today is Harry’s tenth birthday,” was Minerva’s only explanation as she took in the slightly disheveled appearance of one of her favorite students.

His robes were, of course, immaculate. As if the goblins would accept anything else while their employees were in any Gringotts building. But aside from that, the wizard’s hair had a slightly singed look to it -- though it was still in his customary ponytail. There was a healing cut along his right cheekbone, and the tail-end of his right brow was missing entirely. There was, however, a new dangling fang earring situated comfortably in his left earlobe. Bill caught her speculative eye on the new addition and ducked his head with a grin.

“Tell me Mr. Weasley, how was Albania?”

In response to the older witch’s question the curse breaker took a quick step forward with a look around, pulling out his wand to put up a quick privacy ward.

At the elder witch’s questioning glace, Bill explained with a slight shrug, “It won’t stop the goblins from hearing, but they’re not who I’m concerned about.”

Intrigued, Minerva cast a look around the hall outside of their alcove for Harry.  _ Surely the boy would be finished soon? _ And gestured for Bill to continue.

Bill straightened, frowning slightly before continuing, “There were rumors of stolen goblin gold and weapons in an ancient temple found by magizoologists not far from the village of Dragobi. Apparently, the wards were so aggressive they couldn’t get closer than a few kilometers before getting ill.”

Minerva knew from previous conversations with the Curse Breaker that stories such as these were not uncommon. Usually a group of witches and wizards would be doing some far-flung research over something or other, stumble across an ancient, warded, site or trove. Ask enough questions of the local magical population that eventually one of the many branches of Gringotts would inevitably hear about it, and send in their best curse breakers.

The Professor knew that she had never actually told William Weasley how talented she thought him to be. He knew enough, considering he asked for her recommendation for his current position in the first place. This, however, did not stop the Scottish witch from feeling a deep sense of pride that one of her lions was doing so well for themselves. Well enough, in fact, that the young man had, and still does, send money home for his younger sibling’s educational fees.

“Professor, I have never seen such complicated soul magic weaved into wards before.” Bill’s eyes were lit with the fiery determination of a mystery needing to be solved -- a look that was eerily similar to the look Harry got when faced with a new adventure. “It took weeks for me to unravel them to their basic ward patterns. And you’ll not believe it, but the warding ritual used originated -- and was adapted from Mesoamerica.”

Now that  _ was  _ curious, and a possible connection. All instances of soul magic that Minerva had found to date had been an adapted concept from the Mayan Empire. The bad news here was she knew for a fact working with the American magical community for any sort of historical information -- especially concerning such a taboo topic as soul rituals -- would be much more trouble than it was worth.

Before the auburn haired witch could reply she heard the panicked voice of her godson calling for her.

Without thought, the old witch turned on her heel and strode from the alcove to search for Harry. Something must have gone wrong. That could be the only reason for his near shouting, and his anxious tone. She didn’t have to look far before she had an armful of shaky ten-year-old clutching at her robes.

Dropping to the cold marble floor -- the witch knew her knees wouldn’t thank her for the harsh treatment -- she stroked the dark head of hair now nestled against her shoulder.

“Harry? Darling, what’s the matter?” The witch gently pulled her godson from her chest to see his face. There were no tears, but she could see them there, shining brightly in his green eyes.

“Can we go home, Mimi?” His voice seemed less shaky, though it was soft and quiet. And Minerva knew her godson, he only got timid when he felt the world around him wasn’t as he previously thought. 

_ What has confused my boy so? _

“Of course sweet boy.” She carded her fingers through his perpetually messy black hair, the impulsive move a comfort to them both.

“Alright there, Harry?”

The younger wizard’s reaction to Bill’s voice was immediate. Minerva watched as the unsure young boy tucked his insecurity away as easily as he pulled himself slowly from their impromptu hug. Though try as he might, the boy couldn’t quite rid himself of the teary sheen to his eyes.

“Bill!” Harry almost shouted, catching himself before he did, “I’m okay, thank you. It’s just been a long day.” His tone was almost rueful as he helped Minerva to her feet.

“I know exactly what you mean.” The long haired Weasley replied with an understanding sort of smile. “What would you say if I visited you in a few weeks to tell you all about my newest adventures?”

It warmed her old heart to see the smile that lit Harry’s face at his question was more genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Gringotts huh?
> 
> There's a lot of information about the world dropped in this chapter. I promise there will be clarification coming in later chapters for anything that might be confusing now.
> 
> I'm changing the timeline a bit for Sirius. Canonically, his uncle doesn't die -- an pass on the lordship -- until he is already in Azkaban. I want to push that forward a bit to a few months before the Potters were murdered so Harry is still heir Black.
> 
> (Alphard was murdered by Death Eaters for his refusal to join the dark side so to speak.)


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